


Diving for Pearls

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Kidnapping, M/M, Pirates, Poor James, bedlam - Freeform, heroic Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: written a long time ago. James goes missing and Jack decides to hunt him down... cue rattling cutlasses, daring rescues, dangerous escapes, villainous villains, torture, rum, rampant historical innacuracies and a happy ending. Oh, and sex.





	

Diving for Pearls  
Kitty Fisher  
Sparrow/Norrington

 

Prologue

Commodore James Norrington closed the door quietly. Standing for a moment, one hand resting on the pale wood, he shut his eyes and reassured himself. It was all right. In fact it had gone well. A semblance of calm washed over him and relaxing his hand he let it fall to his side, where it clenched into a fist. The skin was clammy with sweat, though he was hardly surprised to find it so.

Now that it was over he could admit, if only to himself, that he had been afraid. He’d faced dead, skeletal pirates; faced the shame of giving up his affianced to a boy and faced the possibility of death with equanimity, yet a full Naval Board of Enquiry had set him on the raw, and shredded his hard-won composure. Internally, at least. He hoped that outside he had presented a professional appearance. Maybe he had, for after all, he had just been exonerated. Fully. There would be no disciplinary proceedings following on the loss of The Interceptor . Though they had laughed behind their hands at a man who had been hoodwinked so successfully by a ramshackled, most likely illiterate and definitely utterly lunatic pirate. Shame, they said, trying not to smile. Don’t let it happen again.

The accusations of ineptitude, lack of judgement and gullibility had cut deeply. That they clearly all thought him lying to bolster his story had made him burn with carefully stifled anger. But, whatever had happened, he was still an officer and still a gentleman, and those two things had been enough. He retained his rank and would suffer nothing more than their scorn.

God, but he needed a brandy. Straightening his back, his hands automatically smoothed his uniform. It felt scratchy under his touch, thick and for the first time in his life he thought it constricting. He’d worn uniform for ten years and before now it had never seemed anything but an honour to be dressed in the blue and gold.

Aghast at the direction his thought were taking – at the self-pity he saw so clearly in himself – he mentally shook himself. It was still an honour! King, country and the joy of serving others. What else could a man want from his career?

What indeed.

He sighed, and turned away, going slowly down the long corridor, his heels tapping loudly as he walked. A door opened and a periwigged figure almost collided with him.

“Governor, forgive me.” He stepped back.

“Norrington. Well?”

“I’m cleared of all charges, sir.”

“Well done, knew they’d see sense.” 

Norrington smiled, the action feeling false, his skin awkward with the movement of stiff muscles. Swann was nodding in a distracted sort of way, but he didn’t offer his hand.

“They didn’t quite believe some of what I had to tell them. Thank you for backing me up on that. It undoubtedly swung their opinion.”

The Governor almost met his eyes, but looked away at the last moment. He turned and Norrington stayed at his side as he walked on. Norrington glanced at the other man, and wondered for the thousandth time why the Governor insisted on wearing such old-fashioned clothing and wigs. It seemed archaic, even here in the farthest reaches of civilisation. Still, everyone had their eccentricities. 

“Jolly good. Now, James, we’ve had a little talk about you – the Naval chaps and I. And after everything that’s happened, we think it’s time you took some leave. A couple of months, say.” He sounded remarkably bright. “What d’ye think?”

Norrington stopped. “You mean get me away until the scandal has died down.” Which scandal though? Maybe without him there the Governor would be happier seeing his daughter so blissfully content with her new station in life.

“No, no! Goodness me, what a thought! No, really, just a holiday. You could go home, perhaps?”

England. Norrington sighed. No, not there. And he couldn’t stay in Port Royal. It would have been an easy enough storm to weather if he still had duties to see him through each day, but to be nothing but a civilian amidst all the bustle that he’d be no part of and the gossip that would burn his ears every time he set foot outside his home? It was an insupportable thought. “I’d rather stay on duty, sir, if it were possible.”

The Governor stared at him. “It isn’t optional, James.”

Ah, so here was the punishment the Board had not seen fit to impose. Norrington drew himself up. “Then I thank you for the kind thought. If I start tomorrow will that be acceptable? I can hand over to Groves in the morning.”

“Capital!” Swann patted his arm then nodded. “I’ll go and tell them you’ve agreed. Groves can handle The Dauntless ’ refit as well. It’ll all be ship-shape for your return.”

“Thank you.” The words were like dust in his mouth and miserably he watched the Governor walk away. Damn. Work would have been better. Hard work and long hours, both good ways to forget the humiliation of the past few months, had seemed the way forward. Now that was denied him, what? 

Clasping his hands behind him, Norrington walked on, and let a wave of bitterness wash over him. His life had been in shreds since the pirate, Sparrow, had come along. Everything was his fault. And he was proving as elusive as a needle in the proverbial haystack. Perhaps that would solve some of his own problems – to go pirate hunting. Somewhere no one knew him, somewhere he wouldn’t have to wear a uniform he somehow suddenly felt uncomfortable in. And if he found the pirate, then justice could be served.

After all, sitting in Port Royal had achieved nothing, nor had sailing on The Dauntless . Well, it was a perfectly pleasant pastime that had, over the past few months, allowed him to travel around many islands and islets, but it hadn’t found The Black Pearl . He’d even resorted to paying informers and bribing sailors, but nothing had even given him a whisper of where the pirate might be found. If there was any good to come from this enforced idleness, then finding the pirate would be high on the list.

But why – to hang him? No, not that…

The thought was startling, for Norrington realised that it had been a long time since that had been his goal. 

I was rooting for you… 

Damn the man. Damn him to hell and high water. Those words had haunted his dreams – not all of them while he slept. The words and the pirate himself with all his skill, charm, lunacy, elusiveness and damnable goodness.

Shivering once, Norrington took a deep breath and walked out into the bright Jamaican sunshine. Yes, he’d hunt his pirate, and try and outrun the misery that dogged his own life. Which was an almost cheerful thought, for of late his life had become more than confusing. Right now though he needed not to think. His feet speeded up on the path to his own quarters. There was brandy there, and he headed towards it with the intention of getting very, very drunk.

::::  
Tortuga, One month later 

The rum tasted as if it had been strained through the filthy sawdust that covered the floor, but he drank it anyway. Grog for afternoon tea - his mother would have approved. Though as it wasn’t gin then maybe not. James Norrington took another mouthful and swallowed thoughtfully. It tasted of burning heat and lice infested dirt; the same heady combination that scented the very air in Tortuga. Indeed, as he himself must smell after three weeks in the same clothes with naught but a single change of linen. Verisimilitude was a tricky business. But if you wanted to blend in at The Blind Peacock , there was no point in wearing your best dress uniform, or for that matter any uniform. It wasn’t even worth bothering with clean clothing.

Leaning back he squinted down at himself. The breeches were past consideration, the shirt was grimed but serviceable, and his cravat was perhaps better suited for use as a dishrag. The coat was the saddest of all; for once, long past, it had been a favourite. Now it was faded from its original green to delightful shade of pond-slime brown. Fingering a rip in one sleeve, he knew that once he was back in Port Royal he would burn it. There was no possibility of ever removing the slight odour of goat that clung to the wool.

His comfort wasn’t added to by the weather, it being irredeemably hot. Sweat prickled down his spine and, closing his eyes, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining a bath. A cool bath, with soap scented with lavender. Wiping sweat from his eyes he sighed, and promised himself just that treat. One day soon. But not yet, not while Tortuga still held possibilities. Though he still damned the need for subterfuge that had necessitated the coat, the dirt and the rum - which tragically was all gone. Despondently, he shook the tankard over his mouth, licking the last drops as they trickled down.

Gone. But at least there was always more.

Swaying slightly as he stood, he walked carefully over to the bar. Delving deep in his breeches pocket, he came up with a coin. King George winked up at him, and Norrington tossed it onto the counter in disgust. Taking a deep breath, he leant on the scarred wooden counter-top and waved at the innkeeper. 

“Another of your fine specimens of alcoholic beverage, kind sir!”

At least that was what he thought he said.

The man lumbered towards him, a filthy cloth draped over one shoulder. “Yer what?”

The innkeeper was tall. Very tall. Norrington looked up at him. “Rum. Please.”

“Why din’t you bloody well say so?”

Norrington didn’t argue. He just smiled as a cask was tapped and his tankard re-filled. Lovely, lovely rum. When it was shoved in front of him he picked it up and took a deep swig. Oh, yes. The same vintage: Chateau Tortuga 1759. Fine on the palate, with a hint of carbolic overlain with something unspeakably reminiscent of stale seawater. Delightful. 

He drank again, and found himself leaning hard on the counter. “That’s very good. Thank you.”

“Bloody polite, ain’t you. Where you from?”

He blinked slowly, as if searching for the trick in the question. “Nowhere, everywhere. Port Royal, London, Bideford, and I spent a little time in -” He caught the glare. “Port Royal.”

“And what’s a nice Port Royal gent like yerself doin’ in Tortuga, eh?”

That was a good question. What was he doing here? The answer was complicated. Really, it was. But even three sheets to the wind he didn’t try explaining it. Not here, and not even as reckless as he felt. He shrugged instead and answered, his face feeling tight as a drum-skin. “Hunting.”

“Hunting? There’s no game ‘ere mate.”

“My good man, I, am hunting sparrows.” Straightening, he smiled placatingly. “This is very good rum.”

“I knows that – makes it meself. So, you’re huntin’ sparrows, eh? Not many in ‘ere – least not for the ten days you bin hangin’ round.”

Had he been here that long? Time seemed to have lost any form, as if the days were dissolving in the liquid he craved. 

The man sniffed, the sound remarkably akin to a drain unblocking, and walked away to serve another customer. Picking up his tankard, Norrington made it successfully over to a far table, sitting down carefully, inordinately pleased with himself for not spilling a drop.

Ten days. Was it possible? He looked around, eyeing the array of motley scallywags, drunks and drabs. None of them looked back. He was sitting in the dirtiest, nastiest hole in that dirty nasty town, Tortuga; a place bereft of the person he was here to see. Well, that wasn’t right. That made it sound like a liaison. Which it wasn’t, and wasn’t going to be. He was here to catch his Sparrow, and to take him back to justice. Or something. Something like justice anyway. But the Pearl could be anywhere. There was no real reason to think that Captain Jack Sparrow or any of his crew would be here. None at all. But there was a slim, outside possibility. And besides, better to spend his leave here rather than in Port Royal watching Elizabeth glow with happiness, or in England with his monumentally appalling family. 

Getting to Tortuga had been easy. Finding any trace of his errant quarry had been far, far more difficult. But the compensation of finding rum to be a wonderfully consoling drink had almost made up for it. At that thought he lifted his tankard in a toast, then drank, relishing the burn in his mouth, the way it fought a passage down his throat and hit his belly to flood like fire through his veins. Brandy was a poor relation. Rum was the king of spirits. No wonder Jack was so fond of it.

He stilled. Since when had the pirate become ‘Jack’? And suddenly there was an image in his head of Jack Sparrow, half naked and sleepy in the crumpled sheets of Norrington’s own bed.

The thought was so shocking that he came close to sobering. Horrified, he unconsciously shook his head in devout denial. The thought could only be blamed on the spirits he’d imbibed. They must have stirred up things long buried. Thoughts, desires, wants. Biting down on the inside of his mouth, he cursed himself bitterly. He’d spent fourteen years forgetting he’d ever cared anything for men other than friendship and admiration. Now in a blinding moment of revelation, he knew beyond doubt that the desires that had mired his youth had simply been repressed, not destroyed. And all because of a pirate!

He groaned. It was no good, no good at all. Leaning forward, he slapped his palm on the table and frowned at the pitted and scarred oak, trying to concentrate. It was all in his past. It was. It had to be. No, of course, it was just the rum. The rum twisting his thoughts. Yes. He nodded, that was it.

Ah, but hellfire and fury. It was the glint of mischief in the dark eyes and the supple sway of those narrow hips that enticed and teased and confounded. And the fact that he was a pirate that put pay to any possibilities at all. Any. Even if he did wish for any. Which he didn’t.

There, he nodded to himself. The man was amoral, drunken, debauched and filthy. Perhaps he had some goodness to him – and he certainly was comely enough, with the eyes and the face and the hips…

No! Damnation to it all. Norrington considered himself to be a good man, and a good man would rather lie with a beast than with a pirate.

Besides, he thought illogically, Sparrow liked his women. You only had to see the way he’d looked at Elizabeth. Then Norrington’s thoughts paused, slowing almost to a halt as carefully he reviewed those weeks of high adventure. For the pirate had not taken advantage of Elizabeth’s innocence, not even in a most indelicate situation. That was a truth professed by both parties and one Norrington believed – as, more importantly, had Elizabeth’s father.

Not that it mattered if the pirate fucked men or goats. Absolutely.

But the pirate had been very kind to a man who was seemingly determined to hang him and display his body until the flesh dropped from the bones. That said something, surely – other than about his bravado, of course. Probably not anything about whether he preferred men or women in his bed. If pirates fucked in bed. Could you do it in a hammock? Norrington considered, and supposed so. After a fashion, if you were very careful, very supple and not inclined to sea-sickness.

He swallowed dryly as his blood began to burn with more than the rum. Oh, Lord, he thought this all so long in his past. He liked women now. He’d wanted Elizabeth! He was a red-blooded officer in the Royal Navy, John Bull incarnate; he liked beef for his supper and to beat his servants regularly. Except he didn’t, not either really. But he still couldn’t be a sodomite! Good men were not sodomites so, ergo, he wasn’t. Not any more. It had been a passing phase. A fancy. The lunacy of youth. His father had told him so and the strap he had been wielding at the time had driven the point home with great vigour. Norrington liked women in his bed. Truly, all he wanted Sparrow for was justice.

Justice for a lying, thieving, murdering pirate. Which meant the noose.

He recalled the moment of truth he had already witnessed. Jack Sparrow hanging by the neck. It made him queasy to recall, to remember the fear, the realisation of exactly what he had done. Murdering a good man was hardly conducive to a guilt-free conscience. Though Sparrow was hardly guilt-free. Not as mired in wrongdoing as Barbossa, true, but hardly a saint.

He was wicked. There, fact. Steeped in wickedness to the point where he boasted of it. Which meant he was damned.

But if Jack Sparrow was damned for piracy, what did that make himself? 

No, he couldn’t think that way. Couldn’t equate even the smallest of the pirate’s evils with his own. But, in a misery of confusion, the thought made him drink deep, gulping the mind-numbing liquor as memory threw at him every word his father had ever shouted about how he was damned to the fires of Hell. 

The rum was gone. The tankard slapped onto the table with a crash, toppling onto its side and rolling for a moment before stilling. Norrington was glaring at the tankard when he realised someone was standing in front of him. Blearily, he looked up. The innkeeper. With a bottle – maybe this was the good stuff. Norrington smiled at him. “How kind, thank –”

And got no further, as the bottle collided firmly with his head. He slammed back into the wall, chair overturning, sliding as he tried to fix which way was up and if his head was still attached. The world stopped and he was sprawled on the floor. The innkeeper was grinning at him. Perplexed, Norrington looked up and opened his mouth to say something, but a booted foot lifted and kicked out. He saw it coming, but was out cold a second after light exploded behind his eyes.

::::

He was never going to drink again. No wonder his mother was so foul tempered in the mornings. If he’d known why, then perhaps it would have made all those breakfasts of threading his way through minefields of conversation slightly less tedious. Or more explicable. For, heaven knew, he was feeling a mite fractious himself.

Norrington started to turn over. And failed.

It took a long moment before anything like realisation came to him. He couldn’t move, thus he was incapable of moving. His mind flirted briefly with the notion of paralysis before he heard a door opening. Squinting into the light, he recognised the innkeeper.

And remembered. And knew in an instant that he was bound tight, at wrist and ankle, and that the man knew exactly who he was.

“Morning, Commodore.”

Ah, yes. Exactly.

Norrington tried to speak, but his mouth was apparently stuffed with something soft. He made a noise in his throat, and wondered if a request for water was translatable from grunts.

The lamp was lifted high over him and, peering painfully up he saw a second man. Armed with a knife, cutlass and pistol, his shaved head tattooed with swirls and sigils, he was most surely a pirate. But not the pirate he wanted, the one who might at least have seen his way to being, if not exactly merciful, then not completely murderous. This one was grinning at him in a most ferocious way, his thick beard bristling alarmingly. Norrington sighed to himself and wondered who would be the next commodore of the Caribbean fleet, as it seemed unlikely he would be making it back to report for duty.

He wasn’t even sure he cared. Despite the quite certain understanding that his demise would be a far from pleasant one.

“Norrington.”

Ah, good, another one who knew his name. So much for subterfuge. And instead of a formal introduction, the pirate just stepped forward and kicked him hard in the ribs. 

Pain stripped away even the slightest pretence of amusement. Twisting forward, Norrington fought for breath as the pirate grabbed his neck and pulled him upright.

“You bastard!” A slap punctuated the statement. Followed by another. “Remember Red O’Connell? Do you?” 

Norrington felt himself being shaken in the massive fists and the world span as if dipping on an uneven keel. He swallowed dryly, bile rising in his stomach.

“Yeah, y’do. I knew it, I can see it in your eyes.”

Norrington blinked. Really? Oh well. Amazing to think pain and confusion could be misconstrued as guilt and recognition.

“And if’n you remember him then you surely recall how you killed him – you murdering son of a whore! How you stood there watching while he dangled from a noose you put around his neck, and the poor boy jigged his way slowly to death.”

Ah. A hanging. Not one he could really pinpoint, but there had been a few. More than a few. Norrington gasped as he was slammed into the wall.

“Pedro, thanks for this, I’m in your debt.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Bring me a few casks of good rum and we’ll call it settled.”

A few casks? For a life! Norrington’s eyes widened in outrage and he pushed against the hand that held him tight to the wall.

“Aye, Commodore. You’re not worth a tinker’s curse here. Less than the muck under my boots. Fuck all in fact. Though to be sure, I wish you were in all your finery. It’d be much more fun to watch you walk the plank in your shiny uniform.” A wide grin showed black and rotted teeth, along with sewage breath worse than stale bilge water. “Pedro, I’ll be away on the morning tide. Don’t tell anyone ye seen me.” The pirate grabbed Norrington’s face. “You and me. On my ship. I think I’m going to enjoy the next few days…”

The two men laughed, and Norrington had a moment to think on that before a fist crashed into his belly, and almost immediately another slammed him back into the wall. It was enough. The world span, and he slipped helplessly back into darkness.

::::

Elizabeth hated wearing black. It did nothing for her complexion and less for the heat. And it meant that someone was dead. It was a colour no one could love. She fanned herself, and glancing sideways she caught Will’s eye and smiled tremulously. He smiled softly back and she sighed, feeling a little heartened.

Looking around at the great and the good of Port Royal, she wondered if any more people could have crammed into the church. It seemed unlikely. Everyone was here, all in mourning of some kind. Not that many had known the deceased. Not that he had let many people know him. And those whom he had, some of them hadn’t been interested enough to care.

Guilt made her flush slightly, and she stood with the congregation as everyone started to leave the church. It was over. No burial of course, for what was there to bury? No body. No corpse. Just some clothes and the remains of his personal effects. Hardly much for a life.

Half-blind with tears, Elizabeth Turner buried her head in her husband’s shoulder and mourned a man she had never loved.

They walked home in the heat of the day. The house was blessedly cool and Elizabeth tore off her hat as Will stripped off his coat.

“Ma’am, there’s fresh lemonade on the veranda.”

“Thank you, Esme, that’s a kind thought.”

The girl blushed and curtsied before leaving, disappearing back into the servants’ quarters. 

“Come, husband, lemonade.”

“No, me dears, that’s rum.”

Will and Elizabeth as one turned, gasping in surprise as a man stepped out from the half-closed doors to the drawing room.

“Jack!”

“None other. ‘ow was the funeral?”

“Awful.”

Jack kissed her cheek and smiled at Will. “Not sure why they had a funeral when they don’t know if’n he’s really dead.”

“They’re sure.” Elizabeth felt the tears starting again. She sniffed them back. “It’s been over a month since he was due back. His duty meant so much, if he was alive…” She shrugged, helplessly.

“If there’s no body they shouldn’t bury him. Ain’t right, no it isn’t.”

“I know.” She lifted her arm and Will came close, holding her.

Jack toyed with a coin woven into a lock of his hair. “I hear tell he was lookin’ for me, is’t true?”

“Aye.” Will nodded. “Though we warned him, pretty much begged him, not to go into Tortuga.”

“Not without a pack of Marines and a few canon anyhow.” Elizabeth added acerbically. 

Will sighed. “But he went anyway. In disguise – though it clearly wasn’t good enough.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted high into the cotton wound about his head. “And he thought he might capture me on his ownsome?”

Elizabeth peeked up at Will, and she bit carefully at her lip. “Jack, I don’t think he was going to capture you.”

“Last I heard ‘e wanted me doin’ a jig at the end of a rope!”

“He changed.” Elizabeth straightened, waiting for Jack’s laughter. But it didn’t come. Instead he looked thoughtful, and started picking at a particularly grimy nail. Guilt made her cheeks blush. “I changed him.”

“We changed him.” Will’s voice, the certainty in it, made the other two look at him. “After what we all went through, I’m not sure duty was enough anymore.”

“And that got him killed in some God-forsaken alley.” Elizabeth shivered.

Jack did laugh then. ‘What? You’re telling me ‘e got a taste for adventure? Him?” He mimed a uniform and a military bearing. “All his prim and properness letting himself get messy?”

“Not exactly. I don’t know.” Elizabeth sighed. “But he was looking for you, and he didn’t take his uniform, his pistols or anything but his sword. It was rash and foolhardy and so unlike him I… we… really had no thought he would actually do it. He should have been in England on leave, not doing… whatever he was doing.”

“So.” Jack bit the same nail, chewing hard. Then, in a swirl of coat-tails he was at the door, dancing almost, gold teeth flashing as he turned the handle and let in sunlight. “I’ll go see. Maybe ‘e’s lost in pleasure and simply don’t want to be found, think on that – Commodore Norrington and his Adventures Among the Scallywags and Whores of Old Tortuga. I bet some of the women could teach ‘im a thing or two.” He grinned at Will, winked, and then caught Elizabeth’s frown. He winced. “Sorry m’dear, got carried away.”

“Jack, they looked everywhere!”

“Darlin’, if you think the Navy, the military, or even the governor’s tea-boy can have searched everywhere in Tortuga, you don’t know the world as well as you think y’do. I’ll just have a little look-see. Maybe I can bring you back a nice body.”

Elizabeth paled. “No, Jack…”

“Well, his sword then. Better to know. Better to know, and besides…”

“What?”

“The body might be breathin’.”

Elizabeth caught her breath sharply. “Jack, what do you know?”

“Nothing!” Innocence painted his face. He smiled, thin lipped, his eyes distant. “But a fat and juicy little rumour came my way about a sale. And I think I might just pay this one a visit.”

“Jack! What sale? What are you talking about?”

But he was gone, tripping down the gravel drive as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Once, just before he reached the end of the drive, he turned, bowed and waved. With the addition of a small hornpipe he waved again, and slipped out of view.

The Turners watched him. After a while Will kissed Elizabeth on the head. “We can’t do anything. How about some of that lemonade?”

Elizabeth nodded, half itching to be with Jack, to solve the mystery of James’ disappearance. But the rest of her was content. She patted her rounding belly and let Will hold her.

::::

Santo Domingo, in Captain Jack Sparrow’s most humble opinion, was a hole of a town that made Tortuga seem the height of sophistication and piratical gentility. In Tortuga you lived on your wits, you caroused, you whored, you gambled and parlayed, but if anyone was going to scrag you, they did it to your face. He’d never worried about a knife in his back in Tortuga; Santo Domingo was another matter entirely.

Leaving the Pearl at anchor with all the crew watchful and wary, he’d stepped ashore and headed for the nearest rum shop. As the choice was on the high side of twenty different establishments just along the quayside, he’d simply headed where his boots led him, straight into a dive called Rusty Pete’s . Well, the sign over the door had probably once had a ‘ T ’ at the beginning, but it had been scraped away by someone wielding something sharp with great vigour.

Jack made sure to count his change. The rum was good though.

Tasty.

He ordered a second.

Tucked away in a nice dark corner he watched the room. Waiting. In fact he was quite impressed by his own skills in waiting – something he’d found very little use for in his life. Unless he was behind bars of course. Or being patient while some person or persons decided on his appointment with a goodly length of hemp. Otherwise he tended to ask questions first and regret it all later. But today… he was being good.

He smiled to himself, thinking, stroking gently at one of the fine plaits that twisted from his chin. He was being good because he wanted something. And he wasn’t even sure why, but after many years of not really demanding any reason from himself for any whim, he didn’t really care.

He just wanted to find Norrington.

And not only for Elizabeth.

James Norrington, Commodore, was a thorn in his side, the devil incarnate and damn nuisance. He was also… interesting. And above all else in God’s creation, Jack liked the interesting. It would be such a waste if the man were dead. All those possibilities of cat and mouse and mouse and cat chasing across the briny. He’d been sure there were months, if not years, of entertainment to be had.

And someone had stolen him. Because Jack was sure the Commodore was still alive. And he was almost certain where.

Jack took a long and deep drink of his rum, finishing it off. He stood in a swirl of coat tails and sashayed up to the next table, where a group of disreputable scallywags had just sat down.

“Good evenin’, Bill, Angus.” He smiled at the men he knew, and at the ones he didn’t, one arm signalling for rum as the other spidered merrily across the shoulders of Angus Anderson.

“Jack!”

He grinned as they all nodded, greeting him back, and while Angus stood up and clapped him hard on the shoulders. “Good to see you, man!”

“And you. Drink?” A chorus of approval lightened their faces as a barmaid walked up carrying more over-brimming tankards.

They all toasted his health. Then they toasted the Pearl . Then the Brotherhood. By the time they got to the code, Jack had cornered Angus and was sitting a little bit away from the others. 

“Angus.” Jack smiled. He gave the boy a hefty dose of Sparrow charm and watched him melt. “I was wonderin’… ‘ave you heard aught of a certain sale being conducted round abouts ‘ere?”

“Ah, was puzzling as to what brought you here, Jack.” Angus wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “We all know you’ve had a spot o’ bother of late.”

“Aye, the last year ‘as been a trifle strange.”

“So the stories tell. And mainly because of a certain Navy bastard?”

“You have it. The Navy man the good folk of Jamaica just buried – for all they were lacking a body to weigh down the casket.”

“The one and same.” Angus grinned, showing the black stumps of his teeth. “Jack, what took ye so long? He’s been waiting for you.”

“Who’d be waiting for me Angus? And why exactly?”

“Black O’Connell and the pretty Commodore.” Angus considered for a moment. “Though he might not be so pretty now, of course.”

“Ah…” Jack drank deep. “And where exactly would O’Connell be holed up with his prize?”

“He’s borrowed a grand house at the edge of town. Very fine it is.”

“And ‘tis true there might be an auction happening?”

Angus nodded. “But apart from you no one seems interested in buying. Maybe they think there won’t be much left to buy. So, an auction, or a hanging. Word is O’Connell’s not fussed, as long as he can watch the Navy man dance to his tune.”

“Is the Commodore obliging?”

“Not so as I heard. In fact I believe the only reason Black O’Connell wants to sell the bastard is that he can’t break him, and simply killing ‘im is just too kind. You know O’Connell, he gets bored easy.”

“Angus, now tell me, why does he have such a personal interest in this particular commodore?”

“You don’t know? Jack, where’ve you been?” Angus wiped his mouth and leant closer. “You must remember Red O’Connell?” He waited for Jack’s nod. “Well, the bloody British hanged him – with that Commodore the one what caught him.”

“I guess that could make a man tetchy.”

“Too right. O’Connell may have hated his brother, but family’s family, aye?”

“In truth, I’m surprised the Commodore’s still alive.”

“I should think the man himself is too.”

“Aye.” Jack stood up, swaying gently. “Now, tell me, where’s this mansion?”

 

 

 

::::

It was at the top of a steep hill. Jack wiped the sweat from his brow and softly cursed commodores, his conscience and his curiosity – almost in that order. Oh, and the heat. It was well and good blithely sailing under a cloudless sky, the sun bright as an orange overhead and a sea breeze stinging your face, but the self-same sky and sun without the breeze? No wonder all landlubbers had problems with their bowels. And their tempers, though to be certain oft the two were linked.

Jack hammered on the door again, and almost hammered straight onto a filthy nose, which apparently had had its own share of hammering in the past. He flickered his fingers at it. “Nice nose, mate.”

“Er, ta.”

“Is the master of the house accepting callers?”

“Eh?”

Jack sighed. “Is Black Connor O’Connell in there? I need to have what you might call a little talk with ‘im.”

“An’ who want’s ‘im?” The man was fingering long strands of greasy greying hair away from his face, trying to peer down his own nose, going cross-eyed in an attempt to view it.

“Captain Jack Sparrow, at his service.” Jack bowed. He liked bowing. He should have been on the stage really. ‘cept, now he got to do all that stuff for real, even to the wearing of gold crowns and pearls and jewels. He smiled happily. Ah, the plunder from the Isla de Muerta was pretty. Next time he tried it on, he must find a nice big mirror so he could see exactly how pretty it was.

“Yeah, he’s expectin’ you.”

“Good. Lead on, then.”

“Don’t expect him to be happy though.” The pirate turned, his boots crunching on broken glass. “’e’s in ‘ere.”

Led across a wide vestibule, Jack peered around. Nice house. Still a house though.

“Cap’n?” The man knocked on a door, and slowly peered around it. There was obviously some signal from inside for he opened the door wider. “Thought you might like to know, Jack Sparrow’s ‘ere.”

“Pasty, just open the fuckin’ door and bring ‘im in!”

The bellow could have stripped barnacles. Pasty hurriedly backed out and ushered Jack quickly inside, bringing him into a vast room, where a big man sat in an ornately carved wooded chair. “Jack Sparrow, Cap’n.”

“Captain Jack Sparrow, please.” Jack smiled, sweetly.

“Oh, aye.” The man stroked his nose again. “Captain Ja –”

“I know who ‘e be, damn ye. Jack, welcome.”

“Connor. Nice house.”

“As houses go.” O’Connell slouched deeper into his chair and sniffed. “So, you finally heard.”

Jack walked towards the great chair. He took in the room, which must once have been elegant. All around the walls were couches, many with their stuffing straggling from great rips in their upholstery. Empty bottles were scattered about, and the remains of a pig’s carcass lay rotting by the grate. A woman’s dress was tossed into a corner, and the pale fabric was darkly stained with blood. As was the inlaid wooden floor.

“That you’ve something I might be interested in? Aye.”

He stepped over the stains and eyed the other man as he drank deep from a rum bottle. He hadn’t changed much in the few years since they’d last met, except perhaps to have grown uglier. Though as he’d hardly been a beauty to begin with, it made little difference. With his huge body decked in a fine velvet coat, with lace at his collar and cuffs, the man clearly fancied himself a dandy – though he’d do just as well dressing up the pig. Silk purse, sow’s ear. Jack nodded to himself. But the shaved and tattooed head was quite something, and the ink work was really very fine. Not that he wanted to have his own scalp patterned so, but, it was a piece of art in itself.

“Good tattoos.”

“Aye.” O’Connell stroked a hand over his head. “Ascension Island.”

“Nimble Needle Patterson?”

“Aye.”

“Thought so.” My, the rum smelt so good. Fingers tickling the edges of his coat, Jack stepped closer, swallowing on a parched and arid mouth. “Good rum?”

“Shite rum, but better than none.”

“Imagine that.”

A wide grin showed blackened and broken teeth. Jack winced. One hand reached down at the side of his chair and, bringing up another bottle, tossed it to Jack. “Try it, tell me it’s not shite.”

Catching the bottle one-handed, Sparrow opened it and took a refreshing swig. It was indeed shite, but it was rum, and it warmed him, gave him courage and generally made the world a better place. Even standing in a ruined house with an evil bastard like Black Connor O’Connell. “Rum’s always good, Connor, ye knows that, thanks.”

O’Connell frowned, suddenly changing tack. “You trust your men, Sparrow?”

Jack waved his hand in a gesture he hoped denoted confidence. “Like brothers we are, Connor. Brothers who live by The Code. Brothers-in-arms, though AnaMaria is in truth more a sister. Though maybe she’d rather be a brother. She don’t like to be mollycoddled, or thought too girly. Nice body, mind. Though she’d kill any man who told her so.” Jack paused, gave himself a little shake and then nodded sagely. “Aye, like brothers.”

“Brothers.” O’Connell’s head sank towards the filthy lace that ruffled thickly from his shirt and he sighed theatrically. “And mine is gone, gone forever. As is the bastard who murdered him!”

Jack started, eyes widening. “What, I missed the auction? Damn it man, you could’ve waited!”

“I did wait. An’ I’ll get the bastard back, mark my words. My men are out searching and it won’t take them long.”

What in all of creation? Jack felt as if he was swimming in a current-torn sea, unsure of which was East and which was West. “Connor, talk to me. What’s happened, did you sell him or what?”

“Fucking bastard escaped.” Suddenly he was on his feet and shouting. “And I’ll kill the slimy fucker who let him go!” He stood there, glowering at the room that was empty of anyone but himself and Jack. “You miserable lot hear me?”

The bellow echoed around the high-ceilinged room, but there was no answer. Jack got the feeling that those of Black O’Connell’s crew not out hunting for errant naval officers were all hiding, quiet as little mice behind the panelling, peering through the cracks and staying well away. 

He wasn’t that glad to be here himself. Especially as his quarry appeared to have escaped. Bloody good for him, too. If he could stay escaped and not end up back here, where his chances seemed to have plummeted from dire to hopeless. A thought suddenly seized him. What if this escapee wasn’t Norrington?

“Connor, just ‘cos I’m not very bright.” He waved a hand deprecatingly. “We are talking about the same item here? One commodore, recently expired to all his nearest and dearest, but actually held by you as a dainty little morsel of revenge until he managed to slip away?” O’Connell growled an objection. “Beg pardon, recently your prisoner, and soon to be again?”

O’Connell nodded, the patterns on his scalp shifting as he ground his teeth. “Aye, Christ alone knows where he thought he was heading.”

“Not far to go in Santo Domingo, is there?”

“There’s nowhere. The town is mine. I give him a few hours at most.” O’Connell finished his drink in one long gulp, stood for a moment and belched loudly before wiping his sleeve across his beard. 

“’An’ I don’t suppose he was in what you might call peak condition?” Jack glanced doubtfully at the stains by his feet.

“He was fit enough to run. I knew I was being too kind to ‘im.”

“Kind?”

The big pirate appeared almost embarrassed. “You know how it is – I got a tickle at a big catch. A merchantman out of Bristol, headed for Virginia laden with gold and silks. I sailed after it and left ‘im ‘ere. Only got back a few days ago, hardly had time to start planning his lack of a future when I get a nasty surprise and find my little treat has flown the fuckin’ coop. Knew I shoud’ve taken ‘im with me, but I didn’t. I left him here and look what happened! Pasty!”

The shout made Jack flinch, but a door opened and the man with the nose appeared, visibly trembling. “Cap’n?”

“Blast ye, this crate’s empty. Bring more rum. And make sure there’s enough for two!”

A bob of the shaggy grey head and Pasty was gone. 

“Most kind of you, Connor. So, what happened to your merchantman?”

“It was damned well empty. I had to settle for selling the crew to some Corsairs.” He sighed self-pityingly. “I need cheering up. Jack, sit yerself down and tell me the news from Tortuga.”

Boots soft on the pale wood floor, Jack walked to a couch and sat himself down in a swirl of hair, coat-tails and beads. Crossing his legs, his foot tapping out the rhythm of an unheard song, he shrugged. “Same as ever, mate. Rum, wenching and plenty o’ pilfering.”

“Your crew there now?”

Jack ignored the none-too-idle question. “So e’s just flown then? Not long gone?”

“And the Pearl ?”

Sighing, Jack gave in. He fluttered his hands by way of explanation. “Off on a little cruise.”

“Without you?” O’Connell was smiling in a very unpleasant way. “Jack, for sure they’ve abandoned you again.”

“No.” When would people forget that teensy incident?

O’Connell grinned. “So, where are they?”

“Around and about.” He looked about, then stage-whispered: “Can’t be too careful you know, there’s pirates in these waters…”

After a hesitation that lasted longer than made Jack comfortable, O’Connell laughed. He was still laughing when Pasty returned with the rum.

Jack winked at him and took a bottle gleefully. The cork was out and he’d drunk deep even before the man was gone and the door closed. “Ah, that’s good.”

“Aye.” O’Connell belched again. “So, stay if you want. There’s room enough.”

“Thanks, mate, but all the same, I’ve a nice little berth in town – know what I mean?” He leered successfully and grinned when O’Connell lifted his bottle in a toast. “An’, if it’s all right with you, I’ll be off there now.” He stood up. “Pretty little thing, doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Come back in the morning, he’ll be here.”

“And I still get to buy ‘im? Connor, I have my own, um, little disagreement with the Commodore. I’d hate to go away empty handed.”

“What are ye going to pay me for ‘him, Jack?”

“Jewels.”

“Ah, we heard you did well.” Green envy flashed from his bloodshot eyes. 

Jack simply attempted to look modest. And poor. “Well enough – but you know how tales grow in the telling. I even heard tell that I’m meant to have a mountain of gold hid away somewheres!”

“And you don’t?”

“Sorry to disappoint, mate, if I had that, d’ye think I’d still be around? I’d have me own little island, a fleet of pirate boats and every woman in the whole damn Caribbees.”

“Guess you would. Shame.”

“Tell me about it! But, I do ‘ave enough to buy Norrington from you. I think plunder used to get revenge is plunder well spent, don’t ye?”

“Aye. I do. How much?”

“A half pound of uncut emeralds, with a few diamonds thrown in for good measure?”

“Good quality?”

“Only the best, Connor, please…”

“In the morning, then.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and smiled sweetly, letting his gold teeth gleam. “All things considered, are you sure you’ll have ‘im by then? I mean, really, how likely is it?”

“A certainty.” O’Connell grinned, the sight as fearsome as any Jack had seen in many a long day. “Either that or I’ll start shooting my own men.”

“Nice incentive, mate.”

“My thinking exactly.”

Hardly flinching, Jack knew his welcome had been outstayed. He bowed, making his beads dance, and bade his host a congenial farewell and stepped lightly out of the pirate’s lair as if he hadn’t a care in all the whole glorious world.

A falsehood that lasted to about half way down the long, winding road back into town. The rum itself sustained him through a small herd of goats, conversation with one slave, two goatherds and the strange vision of dog and a cat fornicating on a doorstep. That sight alone made him drain the bottle. Dourly, he tossed the empty into an acanthus bush and considered the problem of where a nice English naval officer would most likely be found.

Stopping dead in the middle of the track, he frowned hard and pondered: If I were an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, where would I hide?

Norrington would receive no help from the townsfolk, that was for certain. And despite the dubious respite of O’Connell’s hunt for the merchantman, it was unlikely that he was going to be feeling sprightly or adventurous. Jack tapped a finger against his teeth.

If I was a commodore, he wondered, (which he wasn’t, but the Commodore was. Jack frowned and batted away a small but irritating fly) in Santo Domingo – which the said commodore had most likely never set foot on before – where would I be?

Oh, Commodore Norrington, James me friend, where, oh, where can ye be?

On a rise just above the lower levels of the town he stopped again, to survey the view. Church (abandoned, surely), taverns (heaving), brothels (Jenny in that one. Carmen in that. He flinched.), houses of the rich, houses of the poor, shops, stables, warehouses, inns, alleys and beyond, the gloriousness of the sea and the sun setting over it all. And out there, somewhere hidden, was his quarry. The cat turned mouse, so the cat can save the day. Jack grinned suddenly, the scenario appealing in more ways than one. So, where? Somewhere not too far – nor too difficult to find, but not too obvious. Somewhere close to the water maybe?

Water and the possibility of a ship out to sea. Jack smiled, and as the shadows lengthened and deepened, he wandered on, careful to appear guileless as a dandelion clock, for all his actual purposefulness.

::::

Two warehouses, one stable and a boatshed later, Jack Sparrow was cursing the ingeniousness of escaping British officers and wondering if the man had found someone to give him passage off the island.

Darkness had fallen, and the narrow streets were lit only intermittently by the lamps of businesses plying their trades. Up and down, Jack walked. Wearing out his boot-leather and pining more for rum as he went, he purchased a flambeau from a linkboy and headed into the mass of houses just behind the quay. He wandered through the mass of alleys, traipsing through the squalor, distaste making him pick his way through the muck that layered the cobbles. Finally the dark buildings opened into a wide square, and there in the centre was a church. The door was broken off and the Spanish-style arch above it was crumbling. It looked less than likely, but he was running out of options. Shrugging, Jack took the steps two at a time and stepped over the rubble that half-blocked the doorway.

Inside it was dark, and smelt equally of ancient incense, mildew and dirt. The interior had been stripped out of anything remotely valuable. The walls were hacked in places where precious marble had been removed, and empty niches spoke of statues gone or destroyed. He walked up the nave and headed for where the altar would have been, had it not been hacked into pieces. Threading the torch in a sconce set into a pillar, he looked up at the high windows that showed the paler darkness of the sky beyond through a hundred shattered panes. And stopped, quite still.

Breath held tight in his lungs, he turned, shadows and light twisting together as a breeze caught the torch’s flame. 

A noise. Something had shifted. Close by. He turned in a circle, peering into shadows.

Another sound.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” It could be rats, or a cat out hunting. But Jack knew sounds in darkness, and this was no animal or vermin. Unless the vermin was human. His knife was in his hand, and he turned, wary. “I’m no easy mark, I’ll warn ye!”

His voice echoed around the high, domed roof, and a bat flittered into the night. 

Perhaps he was imagining things…

He listened again. And this time the sound was closer. Jack turned fast, and caught sight of a sudden difference in the shadows. “There you be. Show yerself!”

As Jack watched, the darkness coalesced into a shape, and the shape into the tall, shadowy figure of a man. A voice, dry and laden with irony accompanied him. “As I live and breathe, Captain Jack Sparrow…”

Jack blinked hard. “Norrington?”

“Commodore, if you please.”

The figure slowly came closer, until he was close enough for Jack to see him properly, to take in the ragged breeches, bare feet and torn shirt. “I was looking for ye.”

“Really? O’Connell offering a reward is he?”

“Probably, but I’m not ‘ere for that. I’m ‘ere to help you get out of it.” Norrington didn’t exactly look convinced. Jack sighed. “Look, Will and Elizabeth were worried. So I said I’d ‘ave a looksee.” A few steps nearer and he could see the Commodore’s face. He winced in sympathy. “But you got yourself free, so that’s all right then.”

“I did.” He coughed, one hand tight to his side. “Well, Sparrow, now you’ve found me, what are you going to do with me?”

“Rescue you.” Damn, but the man could ask some foolish questions. 

There was a moment’s silence, then Commodore James Norrington laughed, the sound soft but unmistakable. Jack was almost grinning too, though as he watched the amusement fled slowly from the pale, bruised face. 

“And would this rescue involve taking me back to O’Connell, by any chance?”

“Ah, you think I’m teasing ye. Well, I’m not. Odd as it may seem I’m ‘ere to save your hide and I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

“I must be more unwell than I thought, because I actually think I do believe you.” He sounded astounded. “And much as I’d like to be able to refuse your kind offer of rescue, I think, in fact, that it would be most agreeable. Thank you.” And with that, before anything else could be said, he slowly folded like a puppet with its strings cut and hit the floor hard, gasping as his knees cracked onto broken marble, one outstretched hand just keeping him from sprawling full length.

Jack was at his side, crouching there. “Commodore?”

“Ah, God. Still here? So I’m not dreaming.”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.” Jack poked himself.

Another of those dry, weary laughs. “Captain, believe me, if you really are here to help me, I am more than pleased.” Norrington looked up at him uncertainly. “But are you?”

“It’s no trick, Commodore. Come, let’s get you on your feet. Where’re you hiding?”

“In the tower.”

“Up ye gets.” And Jack slipped one hand under Norrington’s arm and stood, bringing them both upright. He felt the shudder that rippled through the other man. “O’Connell was a teensy bit unkind, I’m guessing.”

“Your guess is, I believe, quite right.” Norrington stood still, his breath catching in his lungs and his eyes half closed.

“Can ye walk?”

The eyes opened fully. “Mister Sparrow, I can run if I have to. I just hope…” He shivered again. “…not to have to.”

“We’ll try and do this with no running then. Maybe just a little canter, or a trot. Though as you’re not a horse, maybe a jog?”

Another soft sound of amusement. “I appear to have missed you, Mister Sparrow. I am at a loss to understand why.”

Jack put an arm around him, this close his eyes appeared the green of deepest water, their clarity dulled but not broken. Jack hoisted him more securely. “We’ll work it out, Commodore. I’m sure we will. Now where’s this tower o’ yours?”

“A door, just in the corner.”

It was a longish walk through a side chapel. That Norrington had made it across the wide expanse of floor, over the broken stones and smashed wood - all without alerting him - amazed Jack. The return journey was awkward and clumsy. Norrington was the taller man, and he leant hard on Jack as they negotiated the hazards. The door creaked as Jack pushed it open. Inside, a narrow stair curled upward into darkness. Side by side, they took the steps one at a time. It was a hot, painful business, but after a fashion they managed, until there was nothing but a door that swung open under Jack’s touch.

There was nothing of comfort inside. Light filtered in through a series of windows, showing a bare room, foursquare, with another door closed on its other side. Slowly, Jack lowered Norrington onto the bare, dust covered floorboards and watched him lean back, panting. He was almost breathless himself as he straightened. “I’ll go and extinguish the torch.”

“Don’t let them see!” The command was sudden, sharp; fear, inadequately hidden, echoed through the words.

Jack nodded. “I won’t.”

He walked cautiously back into the church. There was only silence there now. He checked around, and then doused the dying flame in a puddle of foul water. The darkness cloyed around him. After a while his eyes slowly adjusted, and he went, sure-footed as a cat, back up to the tower.

Norrington was leant back against the wall, legs outstretched. He was watching the door, a shaft of bright moonlight spearing down from the window. He nodded as Jack walked in.

“I wondered if you’d be back.”

“Commodore, I am honestly and truthfully not going to betray you – least of all to a blackguard like O’Connell.”

“But he’s one of you. And I’m…” He gave a half shrug. “…not.”

“I may be a pirate, Commodore, but I do ‘ave standards, so please don’t be confusing me with the likes of Black O’Connell. Ever.”

“Principles?”

“Nah, I just get this nasty, queasy stomach at murdering women and children.”

“What about men?”

“No problems there!” He sighed as Norrington’s expression slipped from sneering to confused. “Look, I’m teasin’ ye!”

“Oh. Really?”

“I don’t go around slaughtering folk willy-nilly!”

“How do you do it, then?”

Jack paused consideringly. “You know, I try not to. I may be a dirty weasely pirate with a taste for shiny gold and sparkly jewels – and I may not care who those nice bright things belong to as long as they end up being mine – but I don’t murder for ‘em. I’ve killed - same as yourself, Commodore – and I will again, but I take no pleasure in it, and those who’ve died at my hand ‘ave all deserved it, one way or another.”

“Oh.”

In the silence that followed, Jack knelt at Norrington’s side and gave him a careful inspection from head to toe. “What’s up with your ribs?”

“They’re fine.”

“Oh, aye, just like the rest of you. Come on, tell me?”

Norrington took a long, shallow breath. “You really are most determined, aren’t you?”

“Good, strong character trait! Now, tell me – what’s that miserable excuse for a shirt hiding?”

“Nothing. They’re not broken, thank heavens.”

“Let me check.”

“Sparrow, I know the feel of broken bones!”

“Aye, and I think you might not be seeing things that well right now.” Three months in the care of none too kind gaolers – the knowledge itself was painfully woven through with memories. “How often did they beat you?”

Norrington glared, his shoulders pushed tight against the rough plaster wall. “Too bloody often. Why, you want details?”

The tone of voice was as much a warning as the slight tremor that ran though it. Jack shook his head, knowing there were secrets he himself would never give up. “No. No details, if you don’t want to tell me.”

Norrington swallowed, and then looked up, his expression bleak. “He was inventive.”

“Ah, well, we’re an inventive lot.”

The shadowed eyes closed, and he leant his head back, his cracked lips tight-closed. “God help me, I know.”

After that he stayed silent. Jack hesitated for a moment, and then stood up. “You need water, something to eat as well. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we can work out a plan to get ye out of here.”

The lips pressed more tightly together, until the dry skin gave and dark red blood flowered, trickling thinly downward. Norrington lifted a hand to wipe it away. He seemed quite resigned. “Mister Sparrow, if you do intend on betraying me, please, I would count it a favour if you’d just run me through now.”

“Stop!” Jack put his hand on a thin shoulder and squeezed gently. “I will be back. Pirate’s honour.”

Suddenly pain-filled green eyes were staring at him. Norrington hesitated, then spoke very softly. “In a nutshell. All my concerns in a nutshell.”

Jack met his gaze, and some intangible thing passed between them. Something that hurt. Taking a deep breath, Jack shook his head. “Go to sleep, James. I’ll be back, soon as I can.”

And he went, conscious that curious, hollow eyes followed him all the way out of sight.

 

 

 

::::

The climb back up the stairs was more awkward with what he was now carrying, than it had been with a half-conscious man. One sack slung over his shoulder, a bucket heavy in his hand, Jack cursed softly as he opened the door to Norrington’s hidey-hole.

“Commodore?”

Stilling, Jack hesitated, then closed the door softly. Curled lightly onto one side, Norrington lay asleep in the moonlight; bruised eyes closed, his breathing only faintly disturbing the ripped and stained cloth of his shirt.

Setting the bucket down, Jack lowered the sack and crouched at his side. Norrington looked young. Without the wig and the uniform, he looked… innocent. Startling himself with the thought Jack laughed silently. Aye, and he himself was the Queen of Sheba, complete with entourage.

“Commodore?”

It took a moment, but then the still body tensed, and Norrington uncurled, attempting to sit upright. A hand under his arm helped. Jack kept the contact for a moment.

“You.”

“Aye, well done. Nice to know your sight’s so excellent. Never know when it might come in handy after all.”

“Fool.”

“A fool with water and food.” 

Norrington groaned in relief, and reached forward as Jack handed him a small jug. Taking it, he drank slowly, carefully, before slowly wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Only then did he look up, his dark scrutiny holding Jack’s gaze for a long time. Then he swallowed. “Thank you.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t be back.” In answer Norrington just shrugged. Jack drew himself up indignantly. “I do usually do what I say I’m going to.”

“Is that in The Code?”

“In my own code, aye.”

“Then I thank it, Mister Sparrow.”

Jack looked at him reproachfully. “Captain, please.”

“I beg your pardon, Captain.” And he smiled.

Breath caught sharply in his lungs, Jack smiled back. “More water?”

“Please.”

Norrington drank again, while Jack watched him intently. Thin, battered, but whole enough. Nothing time wouldn’t heal, which in itself was a surprise, after all that had happened. Jack thought about the last few months, and felt his own gut clench and his skin crawl. Three months was a long time to endure such treatment. That the Commodore had survived? Well, it showed more than the blind courage he’d already known the man possessed. All that determined obstinacy must have been a great help too. 

The jug was drained. Jack nodded to the sack. “I’ve bread and cheese, and some clean clothes for ye.”

Norrington handed the jug back. “I will repay you, in time, believe me.”

“Commodore, if y’think I’m doing this for payment, think again.”

“Not a reward in sight?” Somehow Norrington sounded very doubting.

“Er, no. See, they buried you in Port Royal a few weeks back. Well, not you, as you might be understanding, but a coffin with your hat in it. I think they felt sorry for it.”

“My hat?”

“All they had left. Very sad. Lots of long faces and black cloth. I believe Elizabeth tried to persuade them not too - the lass being convinced you still lived - but there you go. Six feet under. And they planted something pretty on the lifted earth, a plant with bright petals. Nice touch, don’t y’ think?”

Norrington just looked bewildered. “But, why do they think me dead?”

“You disappeared in Tortuga, mate. You, a nice shiny officer of the nice shiny Royal Navy larking about in Tortuga – where your skin was worth slightly less than a half-full bottle of rum? What would’ye think, eh? Look, ‘ave some cheese.”

Distractedly he took it, and bit off a mouthful, chewing and swallowing before he spoke. “I was there looking for you.”

“And look, you found me – not in Tortuga, mind. And to be truthful - as I am sure you know I always am -I kind of did the finding. Shame ye had to get so battered on the way.”

Norrington looked down at his hands, and Jack followed his gaze, wincing in sympathy at the shackle galls around the bony wrists. “They’ll scar, even if they don’t get infected first.” He touched a finger to one particularly raw wound on Norrington’s arm. “Come on, let me see. I brought some salve. Eat that up, mate, you need the strength.”

“You’re a strange man, Captain Jack Sparrow.” But Norrington obeyed, biting into the cheese.

The intense gaze was back on his face. It made Jack shift uncomfortably. “I’m not heartless… What am I meant to do, pretend I can’t see your bruises, pretend I don’t know O’Connell’s had you prisoner for nigh on three months?”

“Three months? What…?” Norrington almost choked.

“That’s why they think ye dead.”

“Lord…” Norrington looked stunned. He shifted, curling one leg up. “How come you didn’t think me dead too? After so long, well, I can hardly believe that I am alive myself.”

“Who knows?” Jack pulled the sack towards him and rummaged. “Maybe I thought you too stubborn to die without having caught me first? I mean, you seem quite determined to have the hanging of me.”

“Maybe not as determined as I was.” Norrington’s voice was dry. Jack nodded at him and mimed for him to keep eating.

“Really? See, I knew rescuing you was a good idea.” He rummaged in the sack. “And, to follow the cheese…” His hand emerged holding a bottle. In a trice he had it uncorked and tested. “Lovely.” He smacked his lips and holding the bottle out, offered it to Norrington. “Here, it’ll do ye good.”

Norrington shuddered delicately.

“And it’ll dull the pain…”

“And make my head ache in the morning.”

“Commodore, it is morning. Well, near enough anyways. And besides, can you really sit there and tell me your head don’t ache already? Go on.” He cajoled very prettily. He knew he did. “Just a swig.”

“Just the one?”

“Aye.” Jack watched Norrington drink. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“So polite!”

“Manners maketh the man. Apparently.”

“Who said that? Doesn’t seem very likely, does it! I mean, blood and bones an’ squelchy stuff makes up most men.” Jack paused as Norrington made a face. “Oh, seen a lot of squelchy stuff of late, ‘ave ye?”

“Yes, and a lot of it was mine, so if you don’t mind…”

They sat drinking for a while. “You know?” Norrington said, after his fourth go at the rum bottle. “It does help.”

“Told you.”

“Clever pirate.”

And nicely soused Commodore. “I think it might be time to ‘ave a little look-see at ye. Now, shirt first.”

One arm, then the other, Jack slowly and carefully removed the tattered garment. He hissed in sympathy when he saw the state of Norrington’s torso. He’d been whipped at some point at least two months since, for the deep cuts left by the whip were healing into scars that striped around his back and ribs. Along with the spectacular bruising that ran through an array of evil colours, the front of his body was marred with strange sores, ones that looked like burns.

“What are these?” One long finger delicately touched at one of the marks.

“Nothing.” Though Norrington flinched.

Jack looked into the pale face that seemed to have gone significantly whiter. “Tell that to the mermaids. What did they do?”

“You do not want to know.”

“I do.”

He sighed. “I believe they thought it a game.”

“None I have ever seen!”

“No? Then I think all the better of you.”

“Did they burn you?”

“Captain…”

“Aye I know. You don’t want to talk about it.” Jack touched again, seeing that the marks were topped and tailed by small wounds, some of which were still as raw as the burns themselves. “It’d be better if I knew. So I can help.”

“Lord, you confuse me so.” Norrington sighed deeply, and shifted uneasily. “Very well. According to your friend, it’s an old Indian trick. You force slivers of wood through pinched flesh, a process that in itself is not exactly charming, then you set fire to the wood.”

“Jesus.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“The bastard.”

“Apparently it is considered a good game. So much so that the amusement is repeated again and again.”

Jack swallowed, and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I believe I am pleased to know it.”

As Norrington sat, quite still, his head bowed, Jack took a strip of cloth and dipped it in the water. He hesitated, then began to wipe at the grime coating the pale, bruised flesh. Norrington flinched. “Please, James. Let me?”

“James?”

“It’s your name. An’ you can call me Jack.”

“Not Captain Jack?”

“If I gets to call you James, then fair’s fair, right?”

A faint smile lifted the corners of Norrington’s mouth. “Then James it is, Jack.”

“An accord.” He spoke softly, relishing the moment. “We have an accord, James.”

“Aye.”

They smiled. “Good, now I think the breeches need to go next.”

“Tyrant.”

Jack growled. 

“I said, tyrant, not terrier.”

Giggling like the fool he was, Jack Sparrow stood up. “Come on, James, breeches.”

Sighing, Norrington stood, the process slow. He unfastened the buttons himself, and dropped the offending garment to the floor. Jack held out a hand and kept him balanced while he stepped free of the ruined cloth. Under them he was naked. He stood quite still to let the pirate act as manservant, and Jack was careful to be gentle. It took a while for the dirt and blood to be sluiced away, the water trickling onto the floor and into puddles that spread then slowly disappeared, taken away by the heat of the night. Norrington’s skin was the same, for even though they had nothing to dry him with, the moisture evaporated quickly.

The damage Jack could do little about, but the salve helped on the worst of it, on the deep cuts that lacerated skin at wrist and ankles, on the small burns that made him cold to look at and on the weals that marred the fine, long back. When he washed into the cleft of Norrington’s arse, the man only gasped, and shivered a little, from the intimacy, not from pain. And, pausing in his work, Jack sent up a small prayer of thanks to a deity he had long thought unforgiving.

In the silence, Norrington sighed. “They didn’t sodomise me.”

Jack bit his lip. “I didn’t mean for you to think… James…”

“Please, you were being most subtle.”

His gut a knot of emotion, Jack Sparrow stifled an overwrought laugh. “Thank you. And I’m glad. That they didn’t.”

“As am I. I cannot think of much I would enjoy less.”

“With any man?” 

Norrington turned, his face very still. There was a long silence, then his lips twisted sardonically. “Only with one who wished to force me.”

“And if it were otherwise?” Stunned at himself, Jack bit his lip. What was he saying – what was he admitting?

“Otherwise?”

In for a penny… “If the two of you were willing.” He stepped closer, breath bated, feeling the air thick with tension, his own stomach churning with the sudden realisation of desire and attraction.

Norrington said nothing, his thin face unreadable, but then he leant forward and brushed his lips against Jack’s.

The action was shocking, but so right. The bruised lips tasted of rum, underlain with the copperiness of blood. Jack sighed and kissed him back, gentle as his whirling feelings would let him be. When the dry lips parted for him, he moaned, and pressed closer, licking, tongue to tongue, the sensation more fiery than rum, sweeter than the ripest mango. His hands came up and caught the other man by the shoulders, holding him fast, until Norrington lifted his own and brought them hesitantly around Jack’s sides.

There they stilled, the kiss hardly more than a light touch of skin on skin. Jack tilted his head back, and stared into the dilated green eyes. “Is that a promise, Commodore?”

“On my honour, Captain.”

Jack kissed him again, lingering in a haze of untoward delight. Ah, but James Norrington surprised him more and more. Intrigued him. It was a lovely feeling. Like coming across the Pearl for the first time.

And that thought struck him like a bolt of lightning from out of a blue sky, and he pushed away, gasping.

“What?”

Norrington looked so confused, and no wonder. Jack shook his head, and tried a smile. “Sorry, getting carried away…”

“I beg your pardon.” 

“No, no!” Dammit, now Norrington was climbing on his dignity. “Just, not here,” Jack explained, breathing deep. “But elsewhere, Commodore? I think you might tempt me to all kinds of sin.” And Jack smiled as Norrington’s pale cheeks coloured slightly, though he still looked uncertain. Reaching out, Jack touched his shoulder lightly, the act merely one of reassurance and comfort, his own flesh fiercely controlled. “I am not toying with ye.”

The rum, or the night, had darkened Norrington’s eyes, and it took a moment for him to meet Jack’s. “Just confounding me, then?”

“Not out of choice.” Jack watched Norrington as he nodded slightly in agreement, or sympathy, he wasn’t sure which. The tension was thick in the air around them, and Jack knew himself to be suddenly awkward. But so, so curious. “How long is it since you laid with a man?”

“You think I have?”

“Aye.”

Norrington sighed. “You’d be right. Though it has been years. Since my father found out and discouraged me with his belt.”

“Caught you in the deed then.” Norrington nodded. Jack felt a sudden flare of hatred for morality and those who upheld it with a whip or a belt or worse. “What happened?”

“The story is not vile, only sordid. A sound beating and being sent back to sea was all that happened to me. Though if he knew half of what goes on below decks I swear I would be a vicar in deepest Devon by now.”

“I ‘spect it goes on there too, buggery’s a wide-spread vice.”

“Oh.” Then the comment sank in, and the pale skin flushed a shade deeper. “What have I embarked upon here, Sparrow?”

“It’s called enjoying yourself. And less of that Sparrow nonsense – I’ve seen ye naked, so no need to be formal, Commodore.” He brushed his hands together brusquely, point made, and turned his mind to the practicalities of rescue, not the delights of a willing commodore. “Now, let’s get ye dressed. Then we can discuss how we get from here to there without O’Connell or his men distracting us.”

“Distracting?” Norrington’s dry laugh was amazed.

“Can you think of a better word?”

After a moment’s consideration, Norrington shook his head. “Sadly I appear bereft of vocabulary.”

“Good, as all ye need to be doing is getting dressed.” Jack passed him a pair of cream breeches. They were even reasonably clean. With one hand on Sparrow’s shoulder, Norrington stepped into them, letting the other man pull them up. He tackled the buttons himself. The shirt was loose, but it covered him well, and it had not one tear or stain.

“Better?” Jack stood back to admire his handiwork. He even managed to do so with a degree of equanimity which made him quite proud of himself. The attraction was there, the arousal, but it was shuttered away, allowing him to think.

“Infinitely, thank you. Where on earth did you find them?”

“Ah, well, I really am sure you want to know.”

“Don’t I?” Light dawned. “Oh. No. Maybe I don’t.”

“Come on, sit down. I haven’t been thieving gold or jewels, just the things you need – and before you ask, how else was I to get ‘em in the middle of the night? Even Santo Domingo sleeps, you know. Or, at least, the tradesmen do. Except the carpenter, of course, an’ ‘e didn’t ‘ave anything I wanted.”

“Sorry.” Norrington lowered himself to the floor, wincing slightly. “Forgive me.”

“Of course!” Legs crossed neatly before him, Jack sat down next to Norrington, so they were shoulder to shoulder against the wall. “Now, what’s your plan?”

“I have none. All my energies were concentrated on getting out of that house.” He nodded as Jack offered him more rum. He drank, and passed the bottle back. “Luck was with me that day, for I’m not sure O’Connell was going to let me live much longer.”

“You were lucky he went to sea for that month.”

“I prayed he’d never return.”

“God doesn’t listen to the likes of us.”

“Us?” Norrington considered, then nodded tersely as a nerve pulsed in his neck. “You may be right. Anyway, once he was back, the men stopped more or less ignoring me and started finding new ways to entertain their Captain.”

“So you found a way out.”

“I sweet-talked a boy. He liked me. I… I hope O’Connell hasn’t been too cruel to him.”

There was misery in Norrington’s tone, and an unasked question. Jack answered it. “He has no idea who it was that let you go.”

“Really? Good for Adebayo - and for the lad’s sake, I hope it stays that way.”

“Agreed.” Jack nodded. “An’ I don’t believe O’Connell was going to kill you, not as in murder with his own two hands, you understand. See, word got out that he was sellin’ you to the highest bidder.” Jack smiled at the outraged expression that swept across Norrington’s face.

“Sell me!”

“Aye, but only to me. I came prepared to be sure of that.”

“But you might not have heard, or got here in time.” Norrington was spluttering, completely overwhelmed.

“But I did.”

Norrington took a deep breath, and let it all sink in. “So if I’d stayed, you would have got me out anyway.” He groaned. “Jesus, give me more rum.”

Laughing, Jack handed over the bottle. “Here.” With a sigh he watched as the bottle was upended and drained. “Better?”

“No.”

Ah, intriguing indeed. Funny and clever and he looked good in a uniform. Probably better out of it, once he was back to eating and being less manhandled. Jack swept a glance over him, seeing a man, not a commodore. A man who, for all his airs and graces, liked men. Bloody hell, he even seemed to like one J. Sparrow Esq. Amazing. Quite mad of course. “Your hair’s grown.”

Blinking at the abrupt change of conversational tack, Norrington nodded, and fingered the straight dark brown locks that fell over his eyes. “It feels strange after so long of having it cropped short.”

“It looks good, better than that wig. An’ only a few days’ growth of beard…”

“I begged the lad to let me shave. He agreed a few days ago. My beard was foul, rank with sweat and blood and worse.” He paused. “Jack, you know, I am most probably alive with vermin.”

There were a few bite marks on the fine-boned ankles. “Never mind – our fleas can mate too.” There, that colouring of the pale skin. Jack smiled and leant over to plant a kiss on one cheek. “You like the idea of mating?”

“Jack, stop it for heaven’s sake. I can hardly think straight.”

“That’ll be the rum.”

“And you.”

“Me?”

“Aye, Captain Sparrow, you’re guilty of disconcerting an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, how do you plead?” The words were slurred, and his head tilted back as if suddenly far too heavy.

“Guilty!” Jack grinned. Then, suddenly, was quite serious, his face intent, eyes fixed on Norrington. “ The Black Pearl ’s close by. If we wait out a day, AnaMaria will be here and we can get away.” As he watched the shadowed eyes closed, and a slight shiver rippled through Norrington.

“Do you think I am dreaming? Or dead?”

“No. I am real. And I don’t turn into bones in the moonlight or fade away in the morning sun.”

“Then it shall happen.” Norrington nodded, and slowly his head tilted sideways. “In the morning.”

“Ah, James. ‘Tis morning now.” But he whispered the words, and sat very still, Norrington’s head weighty on his shoulder.

::::

Norrington awoke slowly. The room was warm, and sweat ran in a trickle down his neck. He wiped at it, and the sudden movement jarred both his ribs and his memory. Breath held tight in his lungs, he opened his eyes and looked around.

Nothing. Nobody.

He groaned, and closed his eyes, taking in a long breath. At least escaping hadn’t been a dream. That was something. 

Pushing himself up, he sat against the wall. And looked down at the clean clothes he was wearing. On the other side of the doorway stood a bucket and a jug, folded by it was an empty sack. 

So that was no dream either.

Carefully unfolding himself, he sat up, then made it upright. Sleeping had stiffened all his muscles, and he felt as crabbed as an old man. Stretching eased matters, and he walked the confines of his kingdom a few times before halting by the jug. Drinking water helped too. He finished off the last drops in the jug, and put it back on the floor. By a dented floorboard he spied something shiny, and stooping down he plucked it off the floor. A coin. One with a small hole drilled by the side of a worn palm tree. Norrington rubbed his thumb over it, seeing the golden, intriguing face of the man to whom the coin belonged.

A pirate. Yet a good man, maybe.

Slipping the coin into a deep pocket, he sighed. And remembered that he was dead. It was a curiously liberating feeling. He hoped the obsequies had been fulsome. Shame about his hat. He’d been quite fond of that.

Dead in name only. Though he’d be dead in reality if he didn’t get away. After three months (and the thought still daunted him, for in truth time had seemed to both pass immeasurably slowly and yet also been gone in the wink of an eye) of alternate misery with pain and misery with complete and utter boredom, he had no desire to return to O’Connell. Of course, returning would surely be a one way journey.

Strange, that after so long when he really had no care about the value of his own life, that he should suddenly find a purpose here. With a good man. Maybe. The thought made him smile softly. It was, after all, perfectly possible for a bad man to be a king or a naval officer, so why not a good man a pirate?

Ah, but it was a fine conundrum, when not so long ago it had all appeared to be so clear cut. Good was good and bad was to be hunted down and hanged. Now he wasn’t so sure of any of it. Not of Sparrow’s character – or even his own. All the years of serving his King and Country, of discipline and obedience, had it all really just been a mask for the degenerate self that lurked underneath? If he could still contemplate lying with a man as with a woman - and he certainly seemed to be doing just such a thing - then the Church and parliament quite clearly damned him. If he could fall into iniquity without a qualm, what did that make him? Certainly not a good man. And if not a good man, then what?

Mayhap he had more in common with the pirate than their differences had first seemed.

The thought alone would once have shocked him. Now it was merely unsettling. Like Captain Jack Sparrow himself.

Though whatever he was, surely he should be back by now? His skin prickling with sudden uncertainty, Norrington walked to the door. He could hear nothing on the other side, so he put his hand on the latch and slowly levered it open. Silence. It was cooler in the stairwell, and he slowly walked down, the stone steps cold on his bare feet. At the end, he stilled and listened again. Not even sure why he was so wary, suddenly so alarmed. But he trusted his instincts, and what could save a man at sea could just as surely save him in a den of thieves.

The second door opened at his touch. The ruined, looted church looked even more wretched in the bright daylight that flooded in from the ruined windows. Nothing moved. His breath caught high in his chest, he moved onwards. Stepping over broken stones and statues, across burned wood and puddles of indescribable filth, cautiously he kept to the wall and headed to the main doors. Two of the confessionals were still standing and he peered into each of them. Nothing.

Jack, where are you?

Gone to find help, he answered himself. But… what if it wasn’t help he’d gone to find. The thought was chilling, and hateful. But it had to be thought. Trust was something to be earned, and Norrington wasn’t sure if the pirate had earned any as yet.

He cursed silently. No. Trust had to be there. Jack had been so kind. And kindness counted for something, did it not?

A loud commotion sounded outside the broken doors. Voices, and the wheels of a cart, horses’ hooves. He waited, hoping it would all pass, but the sounds grew louder and then seemed to converge on the church. Fear turned his skin ice-cold. O’Connell. Sweet merciful heaven it had to be.

Scarcely capable of reason, Norrington ducked into one of the confessionals. In the dank, evil-smelling place he crouched, and tried to think himself invisible, just as the main church door crashed open.

“Commodore, you fuck, come ‘ere!”

Hardly the sweetest invitation he’d ever had. Norrington ignored it and tried to pray. He wasn’t sure there were any other options left open to him, even though no words sprang into his mind.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

There was the sound of more booted feet running into the church. The unmistakeable sound of swords unsheathing made Norrington’s skin crawl. Pushing back into the shadows, his thoughts whirled, searching for some prayer that he could recall past the first few words. Strangely, he could think of none at all. All he could remember were lines from the Psalms. Ones that gave no comfort. He tried to blank out the words, but they ran mockingly through his thoughts: O God, my God, I cry while day appeareth: But God, Thy ear my crying never heareth… 

He shook his head, fingers clutching at the cracked and scarred wood that encased him. Surely there was some verse, some prayer that gave more hope? He tried to concentrate, to not listen to the sounds of shouting, of men laughing, of wood breaking.

The Lord, the Lord, my shepherd is, And so can never I taste misery. 

Oh, no, the psalmist could never have been in a dilemma such as his. Norrington swallowed, and knew it was hopeless. And surely better to stand and die than be dragged out like an animal. Better, indeed.

He counted slowly. Listening. He couldn’t hear Jack’s voice among the tumult. That heartened him a little. 

Inside the confessional he stood up, brushed ineffectually at his creased garments, pulled his fingers through his hair to straighten it, and then simply stepped outside into the light.

“O’Connell, I believe you must be looking for me.”

He stood straight, head high, and in sudden silence looked at his Nemesis. 

A black-toothed smile greeted him. “Commodore.”

“I wasn’t receiving visitors this morning.” Norrington walked forward, trying to appear as if he hadn’t a care in all the world. “In fact, I don’t believe you even left a card.”

“Very funny. Isn’t he funny, boys?”

The assembled pirates all laughed obediently. Norrington took another two paces. “I’m sure you don’t care about the social niceties in a backwater like this, but you’d have to mind your manners in Tortuga, O’Connell.” Another step and he could make a run for the door.

“A wit! Ah, Commodore, how we missed ye.”

“Afraid to say, I haven’t missed you at all.”

And at that the laughter seemed to double. “Imagine! Boys, imagine the pretty officer here not having missed us. Bet he doesn’t mean it, what d’ye all think?”

A shout echoed up into the rafters, and at that moment Norrington ran.

Fear lent wings to his speed. Somehow he slipped past O’Connell’s reaching hands and was at the door, hesitating for the briefest of moments there as the sunlight blinded him. The shouts grew to a clamour. Panic seized him, and he ran, stumbling down the steps but somehow keeping his balance, heading towards the far side of the square and the faint possibility of losing himself in the dark alleyways and narrow streets that led towards the sea. There was a carriage in the way and he almost ran into the horses. They reared in their traces, snapping their yellowed teeth at him. Past them he veered right, running hard, his bare feet slapping on the filthy, uneven cobbles.

He evaded the first hand that reached for him, but the next took hold of his arm and he was half-turning, half-falling, screaming his rage as a large body collided with him, brought him down, breathless, and the world exploded into red and gold as his ribs hit the ground.

Somehow he stayed conscious, though it was hardly a blessing. Held down, his arms twisted behind his back, he coughed into the foul dust that covered the street and waited for death. A sword at his throat brought the instant closer.

“Bring the bastard back here.” O’Connell’s bellow could probably have been heard in Tortuga.

Hauled to his feet, Norrington felt the world turn alarmingly around him as they forcibly dragged him across the square to stand in front of the pirate captain. 

“Hurt ‘im, lads, just a little bit.”

His arms wrenched brutally back, Norrington bit down on a scream. Another inch and he knew his shoulders joints would give. Head down, sweat dripping into his eyes, he stared at the stones, at the boots that surrounded him, though everything was curiously tinted red as the pain overwhelmed him. 

“Enough.”

The hands relented, though they still kept a firm hold. Almost sobbing with relief, Norrington straightened very slowly and looked up. Just in time to see the slap that rocked his head.

Norrington licked his bloodied mouth. Squinting in the dazzling morning he was suddenly very weary. “Go on, O’Connell, just do it.”

“What? Ye think I’m about to kill your precious self?”

“Yes, the thought had occurred to me.” Norrington winced as a big hand took hold of his chin.

“But I’m not. Not yet.” The hand tightened its grip. “You shamed me in front of me men, Commodore. What am I going to do about that, eh?”

“If I were you, Connor, I’d slap his wrist and sell ‘im to me.”

The voice was lazy, amused. All heads turned. Norrington closed his eyes, but the image of Jack Sparrow was burned into his retina, so he gave in and looked his fill instead. Jack, looking sprightly and larger than life as he walked up, braids dancing, body moving like a wave breaking over deep water, all insolence and bravado.

“Jack Sparrow, I wondered when ye’d turn up.” O’Connell, one hand still closed around Norrington’s jaw, grinned.

“Think I’d miss this? Nice to see you found ‘im.” Sparrow nodded at the captive. “Good. Better keep a tight hold, lads, we don’t want the nice Commodore skipping away again, do we?”

“How did you find us, Sparrow?” O’Connell’s eyes were narrowed. 

“Someone told me that this little bird was nested in the church – I came to see if it were true.” He closed the distance between himself and the tableau around Norrington. He smiled, gold teeth flashing in the bright sunlight. Norrington looked at him and doubted. Doubted everything with a misery that twisted his soul.

“And hoped to get away with him without giving me the jewels, no doubt.”

“Connor!” Hand on his breast, Jack turned and looked shocked. The dark paint under his eyes made his pupils seem black. Norrington looked at the dirty, proud, fine-boned face and prayed neither he himself nor Black O’Connell was right. There had to be at least a chance that Jack was simply making the best of finding O’Connell here. Didn’t there?

“Aye, look askance, Captain Sparrow. But where else did ‘e get the fine new rags he’s a wearin’, eh?” He turned back to Norrington. “What about that, Commodore – who helped ye this time?”

Jack leant in and spoke close to O’Connell’s ear. “Let go ‘is face, mate, and ‘e might be able to tell you.”

“Oh, aye.” O’Connell released his tight hold. “Tell me where you got the garments, Commodore.”

Norrington didn’t deign to answer. The slap that followed would have taken him to the ground were it not for the hands that held him up. But, before O’Connell could hit him again, Jack was somehow between him and the other pirate, very close, staring hard into Norrington’s eyes. “Now, Commodore, tell the nice man where you got the outfit from.”

Norrington met the wild eyes. Could he allow himself to hope? There was nothing in the dark depths to answer him, nothing but a flat stare that seemed to offer only an utter lack of mercy. Norrington felt chilled, even though sweat was sticking the shirt to his back. “For what business it is of yours, I stole them from a washing line.”

“Ah.” Jack turned. “See, the oh so upright officer is a thief! King George must be very disappointed…”

O’Connell laughed out loud and clapped Jack on the back. “What d’we do with thieves, Jack?”

“Well, I usually recruit them to me crew, but I’m not sure the Commodore ‘ere would be too willing. And besides, the others’d all mutiny an’ I’ve been there, it wasn’t nice.” He shook his head gravely.

O’Connell growled, and most of his men visibly cowered. “None o’ this lot’ll mutiny. Ye should keep a tighter hold of your men.”

“Indeed I should. Perhaps ye could be giving me some hints and tips?”

“Pleasure. When we’re done with pretty, here.”

“I could just give you the money?”

“You could. But where’d the fun be in that. Come on, Jack, Get in the carriage, I want to enjoy meself. There’s plenty o’ rum to be drunk too.”

“Rum? Good idea, mate, let’s get his lordship back to your nice house.” Jack grinned.

“Tie up the Commodore. Make him feel wanted.” O’Connell grinned, and putting an arm around Jack’s shoulders led him away. 

Norrington watched them as his wrists were bound, wincing as the ropes were pulled burningly tight. He felt drained, utterly exhausted. When they pushed him forward he stumbled and fell to his knees. Looking up and around he saw groups of people watching, laughing and making comments in both Spanish and English. Entertainment for the populace. Dragged to his feet, he walked on, straight-backed as he could manage, and with a thought assigned them all to Hell. 

Only the chiefs among his captors had the joy of riding in the luxury of the – undoubtedly stolen – carriage. Oh, and their captive. Shoved and pummelled until he walked forward, Norrington was brought to the open door. Inside, Sparrow was sitting back, one hand stroking his beard, while O’Connell avidly watched his men push Norrington up the step, to make him kneel in the narrow floor space at the pirate captains’ feet.

A casual slap knocked him sideways. Someone kicked his feet until he curled up and the carriage door clicked shut. After a moment the whole vehicle lurched forward, rumbling over the cobbles. Norrington started to sit up, but a foot in the belly dissuaded him, and he shifted painfully back, giving the boots around him more room. Struggling for some sort of composure, he lay in the dirt, and cursed silently as O’Connell lifted his legs and simply used him as a footstool. 

It was a long journey back to the house. The distance had not seemed that far when he was running, but from where he lay it seemed now to be immeasurable. His mind hardly aware, he heard the two men talking above him, but nothing of what they said seemed to make much sense. The carriage jolted and bounced over the rutted track, each jolt digging the boots deeper into his hip. The one consolation was that Jack didn’t join his fellow in using him so. It was shameful enough as it was.

Pressed tight to the floor, eyes closed, his body jolted at every step of the horses’ hooves, he lay and sweated. Fear was there, in his mind, but more pressingly he knew he could not let himself give in. His honour demanded it. All that waited to be seen, was if he could uphold his principles. If he would bend or break.

And what part Jack Sparrow would play in either eventuality.

 

 

 

::::

They hauled him out of the carriage with no more care than if he was a sack of wood. Tugged out, feet first, he crashed onto the earth. Lying breathless, he stared up, taking in the vast, cloud-swirling sky, the trees, the brightness of the light. All things he had almost forgotten in the dark cage of a cellar where he’d been chained. Things he might not be graced with the sight of again. The thought made him curse, for self-pity was contemptible. What was the point snivelling when wasn’t dead yet, and there was a chance – a slim chance – that he might yet survive.

A chance that seemed less real as they manhandled him. A groan slipped from his lips as he was hauled mercilessly upright. Pushed and prodded into the house, they took him not to the cellar but to the long room that held even worse memories. Cold as ice, he shivered as they pushed him to his knees. O’Connell walked past him.

“Rum! Bring rum for everyone!” He grinned widely as his men all cheered. There was a scurrying of boots and in a trice a case of bottles was brought into the room. The eight or so men grabbed at them, before settling around the room – as if ready for entertainment.

Which, Norrington supposed, they were.

Boots came into his view. He kept his head down, then grunted as a large hand wove itself tightly into his short hair, and forced it up.

“Welcome back, Commodore.” Norrington gritted his teeth, and gathered all his resources to glare at O’Connell. “Lovely to see yer spirit’s still there.” The pirate grinned, then spat in his face.

Bound as he was, Norrington could do nothing. He could only wait as the spittle slowly slid down his cheek, its passage watched by O’Connell’s burning eyes. 

“Is ‘e alive, then?”

Sparrow, at O’Connell’s side. Norrington swallowed on the dryness that was his throat, and stared up at them both, hoping he didn’t look as afraid as he felt. “I’m alive.” His voice sounded hoarse, strange. He coughed painfully.

“Little bit parched are we?” Jack Sparrow crouched down at his side, a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked very drunk. Willing himself not to care, Norrington stared up at the man who had almost certainly betrayed him. Sparrow tutted. “Course you are, mate!” And just as Norrington was about to answer, he pushed the bottle neck into the opening mouth, and tilted. Gasping, Norrington sputtered, rum splashing down his face and neck, filling his mouth. Hardly able to breathe he swallowed, the rum fierce as it slipped into his gullet.

Another tilt, another fast gulp, and the bottle was gone, lifted instead to Jack’s own mouth. Norrington watched as he drank deep, watched the fine lips suck where his own had just been. He shivered, and hated the man who could make him feel so.

“I’m surprised you wasted your rum on me, Sparrow.”

“Why not?” Jack stepped away, grinning. “Rum for everyone… the world’d be a much better place – doncha think, Connor?”

O’Connell slapped a hand around his shoulders. “Good lad, and quite right. Because I want him nice and talkative. See, Mister Royal Navy Commodore, you got away from me, and I’m interested to know which of me men let ye go free.”

Voices stilled and the men who sat or slouched around the room all focused on what their captain was saying. Suddenly, Norrington knew he was not the only man there who was afraid. The boy who had helped him was sitting in the far corner.

“No one aided me.” Norrington was careful not to stare at the boy, who was clutching a bottle so tight it seemed the glass was in danger of shattering.

“I’m thinking that’s a lie. What d’ye think, Sparrow? Is this worthless dog deceiving me?”

“Lord knows.” Jack swayed, his hands gesturing expansively. “Are King George’s officers permitted to lie as well as steal?”

“Aye. This one lied about me brother. Lied before God, the law and the hangman.”

“What? Wasn’t ‘e a murdering, thieving, plundering pirate then?”

O’Connell looked indignant. “Course he was! But this bastard told them Red was a rapist too.”

Jack looked down and tutted. “Commodore, fancy telling nasty lies like that!”

Bridling, Norrington had to defend himself. “Your brother was exactly as I described. I took the statements from two different women myself.”

“And they were lying bitches!” Stepping past Jack, Connor kicked his prisoner, hard. “Just like you!”

Norrington jack-knifed forwards, bile rising in his throat. Dimly he heard laughter, but by the time he was aware of what was happening, he’d been hauled to his feet, and was once again standing, held fast before the pirates, breath heaving painfully in his lungs.

O’Connell came very close, the stench of his breath almost overpowering. “He never took a woman who didn’t want ‘im. The O’Connell boys are never short o’ willing wenches.”

“Mayhap those two prove you wrong.” Norrington forced the words out. He knew he should be silent, but he had not lied. And if he was to die here, then standing his ground would make no difference at all.

“Really?” O’Connell’s face was so close that ever detail - from his pox-scars, to the grime that was ingrained into his skin and to the sores weeping under his beard - was all disgustingly clear.

“Yes.”

“Bastard!” The shout made Norrington jerk backwards, though the men held him fast. 

“Connor, mate.” Jack was tugging at O’Connell’s sleeve. “What about if the jades were the ones doin’ the lyin’, eh? What about that, then?”

The big pirate took a long breath. “Aye.” He nodded, and then stared viciously at Norrington. “What about that, Commodore? What if the whores were lying?”

“I spoke to them myself…” Norrington shook his head. It was beyond strange to be discussing whether or not a dead man, a man who had been justly executed for appalling crimes including murder and torture, had also been guilty of taking a woman against her will. It was an evil crime, but in the grand scheme of things the murder of countless men and women had been far worse, and Red O’Connell had been guilty beyond doubt of that. “He was guilty of everything.”

“And I say you lie.”

“Then we shall have to agree to differ.” With a lift of his head, Norrington looked into the pirate’s bloodshot eyes. Dimly he was aware that Sparrow was making a face at him.

“Who let ye go?”

Jack was mouthing something. Norrington shook his head. “No one…”

“String the bastard up!”

Norrington fought as they brought him into the centre of the room. A rope was already there, hanging from the hook that had once supported a chandelier. With acute distaste, Norrington remembered this scenario all too well. Fast and practised, they unbound his hands from behind his back, and then re-fastened them in front. A few twists of rope later he was tethered, and he felt his arms lifting as the rope was hoisted upwards. When his wrists took his weight, it re-awoke all the old misery in his back and shoulders – the sudden pain made him gasp sharply, before he bit down on his lip. They liked it when he screamed. He wouldn’t… couldn’t. Sucking blood from his torn lip, he struggled to get his feet to grip the floor, to find his balance, both of body and mind.

He wouldn’t be their entertainment. 

Then a knife was at his throat – and his mind went blank.

“I could gut you now, ye bastard. Slice ye open and fry your liver for me tea. But that’d be too easy. And besides, Captain Sparrow here has need of ye too. So be a good Commodore and tell me, which of my pond-scum crew betrayed me?”

“None.” The word was gasped out, and Norrington watched the rage simmer in O’Connell’s eyes as the knife pressed into his skin. Just a nick, but enough for him to feel the warm flow of blood down his neck.

“There are a thousand ways to get information from an unwilling man. I’m sure the Navy uses a good few itself, though I’d wager a ship’s plunder that ye’ve never tasted any of them yourself, Commodore – apart from the games we’ve had here, o’ course.”

“You have a warped idea of what constitutes a game!” Norrington gasped the words, keeping his eyes level with an icy challenge he felt hopelessly inadequate in presenting.

“Ah, boys, he remembers!”

“Do your worst…”

O’Connell turned to the room and shouted his laughter. “My worst!”

All the men laughed. Jack too. Then, with a swift turn, O’Connell was again facing the hanging man. Sunlight shafted in from a tall window and flared off the knife, to burn brightly into Norrington’s eyes. Curiously, he realised he’d always thought to die at sea, from a canon’s blast, or a shard of shot-torn wood. Never had he imagined this. This was a helpless way to die. Finally, from somewhere came the words of a prayer and in his thoughts he feverishly said them over, the words trickling past by rote. They didn’t calm him, or succour him. He felt no ease, or hope. He began to start again, hardly understanding the words he was thinking but repeating them again and again. To no avail. Then he knew. Prayer was hopeless. He had no more hope of either redemption, or safety through the graces of God, than this pirate before him. He was not a good enough man. Nor someone sufficiently repentant of their sins. The words in his mind stuttered to a halt. Then, slowly, his mind cleared. 

For he could die well, even if he couldn’t die a true Christian. So, let it be done. 

He took a deep breath, as the blade touched his skin once more. Cold and hard, though it stroked as gently as a maid. O’Connell was watching him intently, and Norrington lifted his eyes to stare back, coldly as he was able. When the knife nicked his skin, he hissed through his teeth. 

With a lick of his lips, O’Connell leant in closer, and the steel sliced down, hard and fast, to part Norrington’s shirt in two.

Norrington shuddered, his breath coming fast, as wildly disordered as his thoughts.

“Aye, death ain’t ready for ye yet, Commodore.”

“Bastard…”

“You’ll like my games in the end. I’ll be sure of that.” Laughing, he paused only long enough to lick Norrington’s blood lasciviously from his blade. “Right then, boys, get those clothes off him. He’s ours now – and prisoners are best kept naked!”

With hoots of laughter, two men came forward, their hands rough and eager as they cut his garments away. O’Connell retreated to his great wooden chair, watching. Next to him, hardly moving from his slouch, sprawled Jack Sparrow, a bottle close to wedded to his lips, his hat by his side, brushed by his dangling fingers. 

The men cut away Norrington’s clothes – with only a little more loss of blood. They slapped him on the arse and grabbed his genitals, all the while making the crudest of comments. Norrington tried to ignore everything. But his gaze, without his volition, fastened on the disreputable figure lounging before him. 

The dark eyes stared back. Then Sparrow gestured with one hand. “Connor, I thought you’d ‘ardly touched ‘im?”

“You now how it is, Jack. Looks like maybe we were more enthusiastic than I’d thought.” He nodded proudly. “Well done boys – looks like you done yer best.” He slapped his thigh as his men cheered, then leant back, settling into the chair. “Pasty – more rum, we’ll let the Commodore hang a while. They say anticipation’s good for the soul.”

The men who had stripped Norrignton, cheered along with the others. One of them slapped his back to set his body swinging, feet scrabbling to find purchase on the floor. Pain tore though his shoulders, and with his eyes tight closed, Norrington only dimly heard the laughter surrounding him.

Finally he got some grip on the wooden floor, and the wild swinging stilled. Gasping, he opened his eyes, to jerk in surprise because someone was there, right in front of him, and suddenly a bottle was being forced through his lips. He fought against it, but the pressure was too insistent and his lips parted, the glass clattering against his teeth as rum flooded into his mouth, making his vision blur from the sharp burn on his torn skin.

“Don’t give in.” A mouth was close to his ear, and it took a moment for him to realise that the sounds were words. “Don’t…” Blearily, he stared past the bottle to find Jack Sparrow’s dissipated face. It leant closer. “I’ll think o’ something.”

The bottle tilted up again, and this time Norrington choked as he breathed in liquid. Gasping - belly and chest heaving as he struggled to breathe, eyes watering - he dimly watched Sparrow turn and bow elaborately in acknowledgment of the hoots and catcalls that resounded through the room.

But the words. Was this hope – or just a more exquisite form of torture? Norrington pulled at the ropes around his wrists, the hemp tearing at his skin until the pain was sharp enough to clear his mind. For, if the words Sparrow spoke were not a lie... But, if there was a way out of this - other than his own ignominious demise - then he’d need to be alert. Though, as he looked around the room, escape seemed as remote as Antarctica. 

In a sudden flurry of movement, Jack Sparrow was almost dancing around the room, talking here, laughing there, making one boy turn scarlet at something he said, making another stroke his own nose with a look of total confusion on his raddled old face. Norrington watched him, and from somewhere felt hope leech into him, warmer than the rum, sweeter than any prayer. After all, this was Captain Jack Sparrow, and anything was possible.

:::

He was far less drunk than he looked. Which was just as well. Or maybe not, depending on whether he was going to have to watch Norrington being tortured. Jack didn’t like pain at the best of times – certainly not his own, and not that of those he liked. And he had conclusively proved to himself in that dusty church tower, that he seemed to have a fondness, at the very least, for the young commodore.

Walking back into the square in front of the church to find him taken had been one of the worst moments in his life. Worse even than watching the Pearl sail away into the sun, with himself alone on a thin strip of sand scattered about with a few palm trees. Worse than… no, not worse than that. He shuddered delicately and went back to his couch.

Sitting down, he tucked one hand into the sash about his waist. The rum was in his other hand, and he drank deep, thinking. Eight men, plus two elsewhere and O’Connell. One door into the house and a pair of long glass doors into the garden. Apart from his own knife, pistol and sword, there was nothing he could utilise. Of course, all O’Connell’s crew were armed to the teeth, but there was nothing left casually around for him to make use of. No handy mortar, or canon. Which really was a terrible shame.

He sighed. Well, who counted odds in a situation like this? Luck was on his side – she always was, though sometimes it was difficult to appreciate her kindness when you were waist deep in snakes or wondering if the tribe who’d just crowned you king were going to actually bother to kill you before boiling you for supper – or just pop you in the pot alive and screaming.

Luck was a restless, teasing jade, and one Jack kept sweet. Mostly. Her slaps - so far - had undoubtedly been outweighed by her kisses. Though the snakes almost tilted the balance the other way. He shivered, and drank again. Snakes were nasty and slithery. They hissed –

“So, Jack, what shall we do with ‘im?”

O’Connell’s voice made him look up. The captive – hanging, barely balanced on the balls of his feet - still managed to look haughty, for all that he was skinny as a stick, with ribs arching up over a concave belly, and hip bones that seemed sharp as blades under his skin. New bruises painted bright, fresh colours amongst the dull old ones. That he’d been stripped was nothing unusual. Humiliate the prisoner – especially one as proud as this. Every pirate knew the smaller tricks to break a man, as well as the more brutal.

Indeed, it was the more brutal that Jack was afraid of.

“Connor, how abouts you beat ‘im up a bit, then let me take ‘im away?” Jack peered sideways, ever hopeful.

The other pirate captain stood up, the fingers of one hand teasing the lace around his neck, while the other caressed the knife at his belt. “Jack, why are ye wanting to be away so quick?”

“Connor, I want to savour the Commodore. I want to have ‘im close by, in me own lock-up, nice and handy for any time I might want to play with ‘im.”

Standing at Norrington’s side, O’Connell gave his body a push that set him swinging again. “You could play with the bastard here?”

“Like I said, mate, I don’t. Not in public.”

“Torture is an art, Jack. You should share your expertise.”

“It’s also bloody personal. No, thanks all the same, Connor.”

A hand abruptly stilled Norrington’s body, and he groaned softly, his head falling back. “Jack, there’s one of you and oh, lots o’ us.” O’Connell was smiling. “See? If I was wicked, and against the code – which I’m not! – I could simply slit your throat, take the jewels and just do what I wanted to the pretty here. What about that then?”

In the sudden quiet, Jack stood up. All the crew were watching. Some had taken a pace closer to him. Nerves prickled down his spine, and he knew he was sweating. “Connor…” There, sweet and wheedling. Harmless and drunk. Jack smiled and shrugged, gesturing widely, rum sloshing in the almost empty bottle he still clasped in one hand. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might. I’m bored, Jack. And I want to see you entertain me.” O’Connell’s hand stroked down the pale length of Norrington’s chest. It slowed over his belly, just where the bruising was deepest. He pressed - like a physician examining a wound - and grinned when his captive jerked in pain. “See, James here needs to tell me something, and I’m not letting ‘im go until he does. And I think it’d be sweet to see you make him tell me. Sort of save us the trouble. Me mother always said I was terrible lazy – guess she was right after all.” 

“You’re heartless, Connor, all the pirate tales say so.” Jack sighed. “And just because o’ that I reckon ye truly could snaffle the jewels and slit me throat. And I reckon you might be heartless enough to still slit me throat even after I’ve got your information. So, even if I do what ye want, what’s to say ye’ll let me go then?”

There was a pause while they all worked out the meaning in the words, and then a murmur of agreement went around the room. Jack propped his fists on his hips and nodded emphatically. O’Connell smiled slyly. “I keep my word as a pirate, Jack, ye knows that. You just neglected to make sure we had an accord over your Commodore there. But, for the record, I’ll let ye go - both of ye - if the bastard tells me which one aided ‘im.”

“An accord, then?”

“Aye.”

Taking a few steps forward, Jack spat in his hand and offered it to O’Connell. They shook, and Jack smiled his sweetest smile and considered himself to be the most righteous man in the room.

Apart from the one in ropes, of course.

Turning, he grabbed a fresh bottle and drank deep, before walking over to Norrington. “So,” he asked over his shoulder, “what d’you expect me to do with ‘im?”

“You’re a pirate, Jack, what does ye normally do to get truth from your prisoners?”

“I normally dangle ‘em over a nice shark infested bay, mate, and that ain’t an option ‘ere!”

“True enough.” O’Connell stretched out his long legs, and crossed one booted ankle over the other, for all the world like a man at his fireside. “No sharks here. But you could burn ‘im a bit? Or flog ‘im.”

This raised a small shout of enthusiasm from the assembled group. Jack peered at the hanging man. “Looks to me as if you’ve already done that.”

O’Connell waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that was an age ago.”

“Still… wouldn’t like to be repetitive now.” Jack walked all around, touching pale skin here, a bruise there. When he ran his hand down the ladder of weals on the long back, Norrington shuddered, but kept his silence. “And the Commodore here would like something different, wouldn’t you?”

There was no reply.

“Ah, James, me dear, you’ll have to talk you know. Connor there is very determined.”

With a visible effort, Norrington lifted his head and stared at Jack. When he spoke his voice was strained. “No one helped me. I escaped alone.”

“See, Connor, what if’n he’s telling the truth?”

“He’s not. Brand him, Sparrow. The smell of your own skin burning oft loosens the tongue. Boys, get the fire lit!” His men cheered and suddenly the room was in commotion.

Jack could feel any slight control of the situation he’d had slipping from his grasp. “But Connor, you said I could do what I wanted?”

“And you can’t make up your mind.” Standing, O’Connell scratched at his beard and stared hard into Jack’s eyes. “Besides, a little branding will be amusing – even if by then the bastard has told us the truth.”

Jack felt the brand on his own arm itch. It had been bad enough, but not too appalling. James would survive it too – better that than to be flogged again or burned as he had before. “Good idea, mate! How about I go and find something to use.”

“You do that.” O’Connell tossed the bottle he was holding into a far corner, where it bounced then rolled. He pulled another from a crate and pulled the cork with his teeth before spitting it away. “We’ll have a little fun here while you’re gone. Ye’ve turned into a dull dog, Jack Sparrow, an’ I’m heartily disappointed.”

Bristling indignantly, Jack raised his brows and gave an ironic bow. “My apologies. I’ll do me best to make it up to you.”

“Good.” And O’Connell walked away, shouting at his men.

Jack looked out of the windows and realised it was almost evening. They’d been back for hours, but still the time was crawling. He needed darkness, night, shadows and secrets. The Pearl was coming in - and hopefully going back out again - on the morning tide. If he could get them away and hidden until AnaMaria sent the boat to fetch them, it would all be fine. It would. But there were so many obstacles between this and there. Not the least being the fact that Norrington was naked, bound and surrounded by men intent on something a teensy bit less polite than a vicarage tea-party.

Slowly, casually, he wandered back to Norrington’s side. “Commodore, please. Why don’t you just tell the nice pirate what ‘e wants to know?” Jack smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”

“I can’t.” The fine features were pinched, and his skin was ghostly under the marks and welts. His eyes, though blown with pain, were steady.

“Shame.” Jack tried wheedling. “If you did, we could be away, you know that?”

“Free. Yes, but I would be without honour.”

“Ah. Pesky, that.”

It seemed that Norrington almost laughed, though instead he choked back the bitter sound and lowered his chin onto his chest. “Leave me be, Jack Sparrow.”

Rings sparkling in the firelight, Jack reached forward and lifted Norrington’s head, his hand cupped under the set jaw. “Why should I do that?”

The dilated eyes were narrowed, darkly confused. “I don’t know. Please…” He was speaking as if they were alone.

Caught in the deep green depths, suddenly Jack wanted to hold him, to cut the ropes that bound him, to keep him safe. The feeling was intense, almost overwhelming both sense and caution. He took a deep breath, and firmly reminded himself where they were - and what act he was playing. Letting go of the Commodore’s face, he stepped back. Norrington’s despairing eyes followed him. When he opened his mouth, the word ‘Jack’ was there on his lips, about to be voiced. Sparrow slapped him, hard.

He couldn’t forget, not for a moment.

He turned, ignoring the blood that dripped down Norrington’s heaving chest. He sighed quietly, and blessed their fortune, for O’Connell was watching the fire being built up in the wide grate. The rest of his crew were laughing, telling wild stories of tortures endured or witnessed. No one had looked carefully enough to notice. Mentally, Jack saluted the mystifying power of rum.

He scanned around, thankful there were no fire-irons to hand. Then, ignored by everyone, he walked out of the room.

::::

Where was a plan when he needed one? Or even a few nice Marines with weapons loaded and no compunctions about how they dealt with pirates. He’d kiss Gillette if he turned up now. He’d even thank Governor Swan all proper and gentlemanly. But they were unlikely to appear out of nowhere. Which meant he was on his own. Again. Though this time he couldn’t just run, he had a rescue to effect.

And a branding to do.

Gods. He breathed out hard, his chest tight. He knew he could do it, but it would be hard to act the pleasure that O’Connell would undoubtedly expect. Shaking his head he pushed the distracting thoughts aside. The hall was oval, with doors leading off and a graceful staircase leading upwards. Taking the wide stairs two at a time, and avoiding the detritus of bottles and clothing that littered them, he searched, needing to find something. Something that would make O’Connell focus on the branding and not on finding other, more sophisticated amusements. And Jack needed inspiration, for there was no telling what Connor’s band of merry men might do to Norrington while he was away. 

The stairs opened onto a long corridor, lined with doors. Pushing them open one after another he found room upon room of plunder. Silks and jewels, gold and plate, all piled haphazardly high. One room was just filled with furniture stacked up to the ceiling, another was filled with paintings. Nothing leapt out as being suitable as a branding iron.

Where would it be? Bedrooms, garden, kitchen. Kitchen! Yes, oh yes, and he was heading the wrong way. Pausing only long enough to slip a perfect emerald ring into his pocket, he cursed himself and ran lightly back the way he had come. In the hall he pushed open a door, thankful that he had it right and that it appeared to lead to what once had been the servants’ area.

In the kitchen, the remains of a fire glowed sullenly in the wide grate, and the carcass of a spit-roasted goat desultorily dripped oil into the embers, each drip sparking a small flame. Jack passed it by, slightly queasy at the smell of scorched meat, to search a shelf of implements – discarding them in turn as each failed to be what he was searching for. Skewers, tongs, something strange, something stranger, a long-handled grill-thingy (which would make a nice pattern, though James might not appreciate it so), more skewers. Dammit, nothing!

He turned, and looked back at the fire. There was a poker, not wide ended, and…there, perfect – a long iron scraper for cleaning ashes. With a dance of delight he picked it up. It was heavy, the oblong end flat enough, and about eight inches wide. Then he imagined it pressed to his own flesh. His gut roiled in reaction and he stilled.

Heaven. Could he really do this?

Yes. It was only to save Norrington’s life! The brand would scar, but no one would see. It would be a memory, that was all.

A memory of Jack torturing him. But, surely, Norrington was more discerning than that. He’d understand the why. Wouldn’t he?

He’d have to. The same way they both had to get away. For Jack was certain he had a destiny with Norrington. A destiny unlike anything he had felt with anyone or anything besides The Black Pearl . For the first time he actually wanted something, other than just to see the next horizon and to dance, with the sea-breeze wild in his hair.

To do that, to get there (not to the dancing but to his destiny) he needed Norrington alive, well (or at least mendable) and not too bitter about what Jack had done to him.

Firelight caught at his rings as he turned the dull iron in his hands. Crude and cruel. Necessary. This – then they could walk away.

It was a devil’s bargain. But any bargain was better than none. Was it not?

Wiping sweat from his face, Jack straightened his shoulders. There was only one way to find out. The implement clutched in his hand, he walked out of the kitchen and headed back up the stairs.

There was laughter echoing out of the room where they held Norrington. Chilled, suddenly very wary, Jack paced softly to the door. Carefully he eased it open, though he needn’t have bothered being silent. The room was in uproar. The men were a circle around Norrington and they were clapping, cheering and shouting as they took it in turns to torment the hanging man. 

So much for accord and bargain. Jack hissed a curse under his breath, frantically wondering what to do. They wouldn’t stop now. Not with O’Connell egging them on – foul and treacherous bastard that he was. Peering further into the room, skin prickling with dread, Jack saw one of the men turn, his hands cupping the arousal that swelled his breeches.

Shock slammed him back against the wall, and he took a long, shuddering breath. Fury burned in him so bright that the world pulsed red - fury and a wild fear that Norrington would not survive this. And that if he did, he wouldn’t be the man Jack loved. 

Loved?

Oh, sweet gods it was truth. But not now, not now. He couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. He had to act. There had to be something, some way out of this. Eyes closed, he thought for a second, then ran for the stairs. He picked up a torn skirt and two of the broken pieces of banister. Then, fast as he could, he went back to the kitchens. 

He tossed his plunder onto the vast kitchen table, and started ripping the skirt into strips. His fingers were clumsy, and he poured curses on himself as he worked, winding the fabric around the broken ends of the wood, building it thick and tight, the layers overlapping, needing it to last. With one done he started on the other, feverish in his haste. When it, too, was ready, he took a bottle of rum and soaked both lots of fabric with spirit. Now he had two torches. He held one to the fire, his eyes narrowed and intent as it lit with an intense flare of brightness. Jack bared his teeth in pleasure.

And looked up to see a figure in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a torch, just as it looks.” Jack straightened warily, the torch flaming in his hand. The figure stepped towards him and he saw it was the lad. The one who had helped Norrington escape before. He looked remarkably small and frightened for one of O’Connell’s crew.

“Why?” He also asked stupid questions.

Jack shrugged. “Because I’m going to burn the house down.”

“Oh.” He was about fifteen, dark-skinned, underfed. 

“Ye helped Norrington, didn’t ye?” There was no answer, but the boy looked very wary. “Look, I’m on his side. I know ye tried, ‘e told me there was one. Was it you?” A nod, short and sharp. Jack sighed. “Good man. I’m going to get him away now. And if I were you, I’d run before Connor finds out, as he’ll be in a sore temper.”

Adam’s apple bobbing up and down the boy nodded. “You need any help?”

“No, we’ll be fine.” But it was a kind offer, and one the child clearly meant. Jack warmed to him. “Listen – get yourself to Tortuga. Ask at the Saracen’s Head for Jack Sparrow. If you make it, I’ll see about taking ye on as crew. Savvy?”

“Aye! And… thank ye, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Adebayo Smith.”

“Good name. Now run!” The boy bolted. 

Jack grinned. Then sobered as he considered his task. There were too many maybes. But this was still the only chance that he could see. 

Tucking the unlit torch under his arm, he picked up a last strip of the cotton and, sousing it in water, draped it around his neck. It was time. Decision made, he went, flaming torch in hand, running fast and light back up through the house to the rooms full of stolen treasure.

He fired anything that would burn, working his way from one side of the house to the other. In the dry heat everything went up like tinder. Working feverishly he torched furnishings in one room, a thousand pounds worth of silk in another, even the paintings. As one torch died, he lit the other, and put the flame to anything he thought might catch fire until he was wreathed in smoke and staring at a vision of Hell.

Standing at the end of the hallway, he surveyed his work, waiting out the space of twenty heartbeats until there was no doubt that the house was well and truly ablaze.

Only then did he run back down the stairs, stopping briefly to pick up a pair of breeches – and to set light to all the other rags that lay scattered along the way. For good measure he torched the hall curtains – the sound like distant thunder as the swathes of fabric caught. 

Face sweating and gritty with smoke, hands raw from the flames, he stepped back into the shadows by a grandfather clock and shouted out, loud as he could: “Fire!”

And again – “FIRE!”

The door opened and Pasty stood there, his mouth wide open until he started coughing. Jack grinned, and pulled his wet bandanna up over his mouth and nose. He kept still, hiding as the air around him thickened with smoke. A moment later, the pirates were piling out of the room.

“The plunder!” O’Connell finally realised that the fire was on the next floor as well. “Get the gold! The jewels!”

Jack watched coldly as they ran haphazardly up the stairs, their boots stomping out the small fires, O’Connell following in their wake, urging them on with his drawn sword and his vicious imprecations. To a man they had at some time undoubtedly boasted that they would die for gold. Well, perhaps tonight they would have their chance. Jack watched, and then dismissed them. Tossing the guttering torch away, he darted out of his hidey-hole and slipped through the open door, closing it fast behind him. 

Smoke clouded the room like mist. In five paces he was at Norrington’s side. “James…”

At his voice the still, bloodied figure slowly lifted its head. Alive. Jack touched his hand to the bruised face, saw recognition hit the dulled eyes.

“Jack…”

“Aye, hold tight, this’ll hurt.” He folded one careful arm around the stretched torso, taking some of its weight, grip slipping on damp skin, before reaching up, his knife slicing through the knotted rope. As his arms lowered, Norrington stumbled forward, but Jack held him, feeling the chill of his sweating skin. 

“James, darlin’, we have to run.” There was no cry of alarm, but they couldn’t have long. 

The sound Norrington made could have been a laugh or a groan, but he straightened and, after a moment to gather himself, stood with his weight more or less supported on his own two feet. He held out his wrists. Jack cut the last of the rope, peeling it away with his fingers, wincing in sympathy as it clung persistently to raw skin.

Tugging the breeches off his shoulder, Jack shook them out. “Here, put these on.”

“Clever…”

“Bloody genius. Now lean on me…” He knelt quickly, easing the garment onto Norrington’s legs, pulling them up, fastening them. They were loose but serviceable enough. The last button fastened, he stood and kissed Norrington gently on the cheek. “Ready?”

“As I will ever be, pirate.” But Norrington was somehow smiling, and Jack’s heart jumped in his chest.

“Come on then, Commodore.” Pausing only to pluck up his hat and set it firmly on his head, he hoisted one obviously numb arm over his own shoulders and headed for the door.

The clean air cleared his head. A winding path led to the drive. Hopeful, he headed that way, taking as much of Norrington’s weight as he could, too fearful to go slowly. In gathering dusk he paused at the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the foliage, wary, his heart thudding. The drive itself appeared free of any guards and he moved them a cautious step forward – and looked up suddenly as a cascade of gold was tossed out of a window, and crashed onto the drive. Smoke billowed out from every casement. In some places there were flames as well, licking at the brickwork and scouring the eye. Jack blinked, and looked down to the treasure scattered upon the ground, and his gaze lingering hungrily. But then movement brought his eyes up.

Treasure forgotten, Jack almost crowed in triumph. For in the shadows that gathered in the lee of the house stood the carriage, complete with horses still in their traces. He gave up a quick word of thanks to Fate, her sister Luck and any other deity who might be smiling on him, and half carried a staggering Norrington across the drive. With a sharp twist of the handle Jack pulled open the carriage door, and heaved his companion inside. 

“All right?” Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Jack leant in the doorway, panting for breath.

Norrington nodded breathlessly, and wedged himself into a corner. Jack nodded back and slammed the door shut. It had been a lifetime since he had driven any sort of vehicle, but surely it was something you never forgot; like diving into shallow water, or dancing the tarantella. Climbing up into the box, he picked up the reins and wound them around his fingers. With a click of his tongue and swift swish of leather they were off.

Except they weren’t. Consternation furrowing his brow, Sparrow tried again. The horses moved but the carriage…did not. Again. All that happened was that the horses became more unsettled, moving restlessly in their traces. Again. Nothing. O’Connell would be after them soon. He would kill them; probably sodomise them too, just for good measure, possible both before and after slitting their throats. It was all his own fault. Why couldn’t driving a carriage be easy to remember? What else could there be – slap the reins and yell. He tried again. The whole carriage jolted as the horses tried to obey, but nothing else happened. Blind now with something akin to panic, he sat with his hands clenched into helpless fists.

“There’s a brake!”

Norrington’s voice. Sparrow looked down, back to the carriage window. Norrington was peering up at him, his hands clutched hard to the sill, his face a gaunt mask in the hellish light. 

“What?”

“At your side, there’s a lever, let it free.”

Of course! There. He tugged it, and immediately the carriage started forward. Jack grinned, and then he heard the cry of a chase. O’Connell had spotted them. 

“Hold on, James, it might be a wild ride!” A pistol ball whined over his head, and he ducked low, whacking the reins down hard on the horses’ rumps. Suddenly they were away, clattering out of the drive, heading down the long winding path into town as the sky caught fire behind them.

 

 

 

 

 

::::

And a wild ride it was. The horses simply took off. Spooked by the constant goading they took the narrow path at breakneck speed, leaving Jack to hold on and hope for the best. With the rising smoke and flames setting the evening horizon on fire behind them, they careered onward, miraculously avoiding killing anyone in their way, though incurring the wrathful curses of more than one street vendor. Jack was just beginning to enjoy himself when the ground levelled out and the horses began to slow. Straightening his hat, he took control of the reins, and managed to look almost collected as they clattered through the main square.

He didn’t stop, just kept on, guiding the horses through the darkening streets, until they were away from the houses, the path turning from stone to earth, and the road once again beginning to lead uphill. It grew darker as they travelled, the sun setting with tropical abruptness, and Jack had to peer to see where they were. Finally, he found what he was searching for, and slowed the horses to a stand outside what looked like an abandoned boathouse. 

He jumped down, somewhat amazed to find his knees unsteady. But he opened the door, and grinned cockily into the shadows at Norrington. “Bet you never had a ride like that in London.”

The Commodore had clearly been holding on for his life. As Jack hoisted himself into the carriage, Norrington slowly sat forward, his hand unlocking one finger at a time from the hanging strap.

He nodded weakly. “You would win your wager.”

Jack laid a hand on his back. “I didn’t kill you?”

“No.” He turned slowly, his bare skin unnaturally pale in the darkness. “Nor did you kill yourself.”

“No. So I didn’t!” With a quick, surprised grin, he shifted, and backed out of the carriage. “Come on.”

Norrington moved slowly, painfully, until he sat close to the door. He looked down to where Jack stood on the ground, and his tight-drawn features softened. “I’m glad. That you live.”

Staring up, Jack nodded. “A good outcome, in the end. Come, let’s get you out of there. I want to unhitch the poor beasts before they die in their harness.”

Peering out into the night, Norrington asked, “Where are we?”

“We’re almost at the next bay along the coast. AnaMaria will send Gibbs with a boat. We’ll be off on the morning tide.”

“God willing?”

“Fate willing, James. Fate and Luck and Fortune – the tricky jades who seem to like me. Well, they seem to like us both, actually.” He grinned.

“Really?” Norrington sounded doubtful. Gingerly easing himself out of the carriage, he let Jack take most of his weight. As the cool air hit him, he shivered once, the breeze that lifted off the sea stirring the short locks of his hair. Held upright in Jack’s arms he scented the air and shivered again. “I thought I’d never be free again.”

“Nothing like hanging in ropes to take away a man’s hope.”

“Or being hanged.” Norrington closed his eyes, leaning forward weakly. “Why don’t you hate me?”

“I lived – ‘tis all that matters.” And it was. Each day was an adventure, each one all the sweeter for knowing how close he had come to death. How many lives? By his own count he had five left. “There’s no need to dwell on something done and gone.”

Norrington slowly lifted his head, and opened his eyes. He looked worn and battered, his eyes painfully confused. “How can you forgive me?”

“I just do.” To prove it he pressed a light kiss by Norrington’s torn mouth, and then smiled gently. “Now, I need to see to the horses and then get both of us down to the beach, so…”

“You need to let me go?”

“Exactly. Come on, there’s a nice bench over here, well ‘tis more a plank o’ wood on a couple of struts and it probably stinks of fish or worse, but it’ll do fine.” As he talked they were walking slowly, and when they reached the bench he lowered Norrington down.

“Thank you.” Norrington sat very still, though he was breathing hard, his skin wet with sweat.

“Here, or you’ll catch your death.” Slipping out of his sword belt, Jack stripped off his smoke-stained frock coat. It was heavy, the hem weighted with the jewels that would have ransomed a commodore. He draped it around the same Commodore’s shoulders, considering that he had never looked less like a Naval officer. As the coat went around him, Norrington glanced up in surprise.

“There, that’ll help. Try not to do anything too exerting now.”

“I promise. And thank you.” With a tightening of his face, Norrington leant back, arms holding tight to the fabric as if to leech warmth or comfort from the fibres themselves. 

Jack looked at him, hesitated, then moved away and started stripping the horses of their harness, freeing them from their traces. He smoothed his hand down one animal’s sweating head, scratching at the white blaze that ended at her soft nose. She nuzzled him happily, and he whispered his thanks, for without them the escape would have been, at the very least, more difficult. If even possible at all. Whispering sweet nothings into her ear, he took her head-collar and her companion’s and led both animals towards the foothills. There, one at a time, he stripped the last of the harness away. When, so used to obedience and the proximity of man, they dumbly stood their ground, he waved his hands and shouted at them until finally they danced on their hooves and, with a toss of their manes, cantered up into the dark hillside.

Waiting until the horses were nothing but shadows, he turned and walked back to his Commodore. His boots were soft on the stony path, but Norrington still opened his eyes as Jack approached. “Done?”

“Aye, they’ll be fine.” Crouching on the ground by his feet, one hand going to rest lightly on James’ knee, he looked up intently. The moon was playing in the narrow clouds, and there was light enough to see the exhaustion on the pale, bruised face. “What about you?”

“Fine enough, thank you.”

“D’ye think King George knows about this tendency you have towards untruths?”

Almost laughing, the sound soft and painful, Norrington shook his head. “I’m alive, Jack. That’s fine enough.”

“Will you make it to the Pearl ?”

Norrington hesitated. “Would you leave me if I couldn’t?”

“No! Foolish Commodore, I’d pick you up and carry you.”

“Ah.”

“So, can you walk?”

“To get away from this pestilential island? Yes, Jack, I can walk.” Slowly Norrington leant forward. Suddenly frowning he reached out and touched his fingers to one of Jack’s braids, then across to his cheek, the touch hardly more than a whisper of skin on skin, then once more back to the mass of hair and braids, locks and beads. “Your hair… I think you lost a few of these in the fire.”

“No matter.”

“Matter enough.” He tugged one lock and it broke off in his hand. “See?” Holding the singed hair in his palm, he closed his hand about it. “Thank you. For everything. That you got us out of there at all…” He shivered. 

The moonlight suddenly spilled more brightly from the sky, and Jack met the pain-narrowed eyes. “James, I wasn’t leaving you.” It was a fact, simply stated, but the emotions it raised, the possibilities his failure might have allowed? It was beyond all measure distressing. Briskly rising to his feet, he stared out to sea. “And I’m not leaving you here either, so come along James, we’ve a nice moonlit walk to make.”

All business, he slid one arm around Norrington’s back and eased him upright. The Commodore’s breath caught sharply as he stood. 

“You’ve stiffened up?”

“Yes…”

“We’ll go slow.” Jack picked up his sword, neatly wrapped in its belt, and held it in his hand as they walked.

The ground became sandier as they made their way down the half-formed path to the beach. The sea grass and the weeds that grew in salt-bitter air were all close to the ground. They walked around them, Jack careful of Norrington’s bare feet as some of the plants had spines that could stab you well as any knife. Norrington seemingly coped well enough, though gradually he allowed more of his weight to rest on Jack’s shoulders, and Jack took it willingly. Despite being the taller, the other man was half starved. 

At the edge of the dunes they paused, and Jack turned to his companion. “D’ye want to rest here?”

A shake of Norrington’s head said no, and so they walked on, the sand heavy under their feet. By the time they reached the water’s edge, the moon was once again passing through deep cloud, and in the strange, luminescent darkness, surrounded by the soft swirl of the waves, Jack lowered them both onto the sand, carefully tugging his coat more securely around the bare shoulders. He was quite breathless himself. Norrington was almost spent, his eyes closing as Jack drew him close, letting him rest in the curve of his arm.

The Pearl was out there. He could scent her, feel her in the way the sea spoke to him. For a long time he sat, quite content to listen and watch, to feel the night and the tides that ran as slaves to the moon. When it was close to dawn, he found a song slipping through his thoughts and he hummed it softly, the tune dug from deep in his memory, the words long gone. It was a lovely, melancholy air, but full of hope for all the sadness. Watching the horizon he sang alone, though maybe the mermaids heard him, for the salt spume danced nearer, and the night seemed to still to listen.

When soft, murmured words drifted up to him, at first he wasn’t sure from whence they came:

“There is a ship, that sails the sea, that’s loaded deep, as deep can be…” 

But then he recognised the slightly slurred voice that spoke so quietly, and he smiled, rubbing his chin over his Commodore’s short hair, holding him closer as the sea played at their feet. “How does it go on?”

He felt Norrington gasp brokenly against his shoulder, then the voice continued, so hushed that the world seemed to pause: “ But not as deep, as the love I am in, I care not if I sink or swim…” 

“James. Oh, Jamie…”

“The words...” As if only half awake Norrington stopped there, and his shoulders shifted in a slight gesture of helplessness. “I don’t know.”

“I do. The words are like jewels, or treasure.” Better than gold. Truly. Jack lifted his head to the morning and scented the Pearl close by. Soon they’d be away, and all the future was there for their taking. And that was more treasure.

“You seem so mad sometimes, but you’re not really, are you?”

“Me?” Startled, Jack answered with what he thought Norrington wanted to hear. “Of course not.” 

“Knew it…”

As Norrington slipped back into a half-sleep, Jack stared blindly out into the distance. He could hear the mermaids laughing, their tail fins teasing the waves into bright points of white spray as they dipped, diving back to the depths where there were no men. And no men’s lies to shame them.

::::

Jack watched the sky turn from darkest lapis to oldest rose, while the horizon shimmered like a silver ribbon that led from night to day. Proud, a thousand yards out in deep water, sat his love, and he smiled at her, glowing with pride at the way she sat the waves, at the sweet curve of her bow and the sheer loveliness of her lines.

In the half-gloaming he saw the boat being lowered, Cotton’s parrot darting above it, her green plumage the only colour in the world apart from the morning sky.

As the boat slowly neared, he squeezed Norrington’s shoulder gently. “Hey…” Muscles tensed under his hand. “Shush, it’s only the boat come for us.”

When he straightened, Jack let his arm slide away, though he watched as Norrington rubbed his hands clumsily over his eyes and peered out to sea, his face white and strained. “Yours?”

“Aye.” Grunting at the stiffness of his joints, Jack stood up, stretching with various mutterings and groans. “Damp sand, bloody stuff hates me.”

“And me.” Norrington had gathered himself to stand, but with one hand wrapped about his middle had paused, seemingly breathless.

“It’s all worse for being still so long.”

“So it seems.” His head bowed, he half sat, one fist clutching hard at the sand.

Wincing in sympathy, Jack crouched by his side. “Here, let me help.” Holding out a blistered hand, he waited for Norrington to take it and, managing successfully not to wince, pulled him slowly to his feet.

The boat was almost upon them. Gibbs was waving, grinning like a monkey. One arm around Norrington’s waist, Jack led them both out into the shallows, the surf breaking around them, climbing their legs, the sea wrapping itself around them, cold as a whore’s heart. 

“Jack, good to see ye!”

“And you, Mister Gibbs.” Jack tossed his sword to the waiting man. “Give the Commodore a hand, will ye?”

With Jack hoisting him up and Gibbs pulling him in, Norrington landed in the boat. In an instant Jack was beside him, dripping water everywhere as he settled at his side, one arm around his shoulders to hold him up, though it was clear he was hardly aware of what was going on around him. Gibbs was staring doubtfully. “Norrington. ‘e were a lieutenant last time we met. Looks a bit diff’rent now. Is ‘e alright?”

“Nothing a few weeks at sea won’t cure.”

“That’ll do it, though ye knows it be bad luck to have a navy man on board.” Gibbs nodded. He took a flask from his pocket and offered it to Jack. “Though I won’t be holdin’ it agin ye, an’ I also thought ye might be a needin’ o’ this.”

“You are without doubt a wonderful man.” Jack took the flask as if it were heaven encapsulated. Sitting next to Norrington as the rowers turned the boat, he uncapped it and sniffed the heady contents blissfully. “Jamie, this’ll warm ye up.”

But Norrington was only half aware, and as Jack watched his eyes slid closed and his body went limp. Holding him more tightly, Jack cursed and pulled the coat more closely about his shoulders. “Gibbs, row faster man!”

“Come on, boys, put yer heathen backs into it!” The small boat surged forward, and very slowly the Pearl grew larger, until quite suddenly they were up against her side.

A net ladder was cast down to them. Sighing, Jack slapped his sword and hat into Gibbs hands, and simply lifted the unconscious man over his shoulder. Steadying him, Jack took hold of the rope and began to climb, hand over hand, rung by rung. When the Commodore’s weight was at last lifted from his shoulder, he held quite still, breathing hard as a prize-fighter after ten rounds. Gathering himself he managed another rung, then blessedly someone took pity on him and he was hauled up and over the side, landing in an ungainly heap at AnaMaria’s feet.

“Welcome back, Captain.”

“AnaMaria.”

He patted the planks under his hands, whispering a greeting to his other love. She pranced on the waves and he knew she was glad he was home.

“Exciting trip?”

“You ‘ave no idea.”

She looked him up and down, her lip curling. “Aye. At least ye got your Commodore. He should make a fine lot o’ ransom.”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled sweetly, and crawled to his feet. “Absolutely, aye, I agree. And so that he don’t lose any value, as it were, I think we should look after him, don’t you?”

“I was thinking of puttin’ ‘im in the brig. Do the bastard good…”

“AnaMaria, ‘e’s been locked up for three months!”

She sniffed. “Not on this ship ‘e ain’t.”

“An’ ‘e won’t be now. He can sleep in my cabin – he’ll be no bother!” Another winning smile. Jack waved his hands at her, then jumped as Gibbs walked past, slamming his hat and sword into his arms.

“Mark my words, ‘e’ll be bad luck. Navy man on a pirate ship...” Changing tack, Gibbs tutted ominously.

AnaMaria glared at him. “Aye, an’ you think the same o’ me, you old fool!”

“Aye.” Gibbs sniffed loudly. “Can I ‘ave me flask back, Cap’n?”

“Oh, yes.” Jack relinquished it. “Right. I’ll be in my cabin. With James – er, the Commodore.”

“James, is it?” Sharp as a whip, AnaMaria pounced on the slip. “I see…”

Sighing, Jack decided the best way was just to ignore them all. “Gibbs, give me hand to get him below. AnaMaria, get us underway soon as you can. There might be someone after us…”

“Oh good.” She bared her teeth at him. “Just what I wanted, another enemy.”

Gibbs walked back. “Another enemy? That’s bad luck too.”

“Now, old man, for once I agree with ye.” AnaMaria nodded firmly.

“It’ll be worse than bad luck if he catches us, so look lively.”

“Aye, Cap’n!” She screwed her hat more securely on her head, and went off, shouting orders. 

He gestured to a crew member. “Take these.” He passed over his effects. “Bring them down when we’re done, right?” The thin, cropped head nodded. 

Gibbs was staring down with mild curiosity at where Norrington lay sprawled on the deck. “Ye think e’ll live?”

“Gibbs, if he don’t, then I’m going back there and mark my words, Black O’Connell will be very unhappy.”

“Oh, so that’s how the land lies… Either that or the ransom is a very big one.” He leered happily.

Jack sighed. “Just shut up and take his legs.”

“Just thinkin’ out loud, Cap’n.”

“Don’t.” He grunted as they lifted Norrington off the deck. “And don’t drop ‘im either.”

“Rules, rules and more bloody rules. I could’ve stayed in the Navy, ye knows that?”

“Yeah, and a likely story.” They passed through the doors to the stateroom, easing the limp body past the ornate furniture, Jack walking backwards, head twisted around to see where he was going, heading past another curtained doorway into his bedroom. He pushed the door open and backed inside, walking to the bed and carefully laying the dead-weight down upon it.

His back spiked at him as he straightened, and he rubbed it hard to ease the ache. “Gibbs, thanks.”

The gnarled face creased with pleasure. “For ye, Jack, anything that don’t involve women, ye knows that.”

“Or Navy men, I thought.”

“Well, I’ll be reconsidering that one. Besides, Cap’n, you can always prove me wrong. Or he can, when he wakes up, though I reckon ‘e won’t be happy for a while.” He whistled, soundlessly. “What did they do to ‘im?”

“Too much, Gibbs, too much.”

The old man sighed. “What can I bring ye?”

“Hot water. Lots of it. I’ve all I’ll need otherwise in here.”

The ship moved suddenly, and Gibbs looked up. “We’ll be out at sea soon enough. I’ll be back, quick as I can.” He paused in the door way and taking Jack’s effects and coat from the boy, he laid it all on the floor before closing the door in his wake.

The cabin was home. Jack blessed the person who had put candles and water at the bedside. He poured a cupful out and drank it down, gasping as his thirst was quenched. Slowly placing the cup back, he stood for a moment, looking at his commodore. The moment held, drew out, then brisk and efficient he prepared, stripping off his belt and unwinding his sash, stowing various pouches and packets in a high chest as he did so. Folding the long length of fabric over a chair, he went back to the bed.

For a long moment he just stood there, pausing again, looking down at the still figure. Then he pulled off his waistcoat and, tossing it onto the chair, rolled back his sleeves. His hands were stiff, but not too bad, considering. With a shrug he peeled the wrist guards off along with the scraps of singed fabric that were still wound around his palms and fingers, dropping it all on the floor. 

Norrington’s soaked breeches were tough to undo, and just as difficult to remove. Jack was half way through tugging them off narrow hips when Norrington coughed and, as he came to, jerked to one side in alarm.

Hands not quite touching the tense shoulders, Jack spoke reassuringly: “James, it’s all right. We’re safe!” 

“What?” Bewildered, wide-eyed, Norrington stared up at him, then slowly relaxed into the pillows. “Jack.”

“Aye.”

“Where are we?”

“In my cabin.” Jack took Norrington’s reaching hand and held it. The skin was cold, though his face was already beginning to show signs of fever. “We need to get those wet clothes off you.”

“We’re on your ship?” He frowned in confusion.

“And she’s taking us out to sea.”

“So we are safe.”

“We’re away from Hispaniola. The Pearl will look after us now.” Jack reached for the cup. “Here, drink this.” Shifting, he knelt on the floor and helped Norrington to sit forward, holding the cup to his mouth. He drank thirstily, water escaping his mouth and trickling down his chest.

Jack replaced the beaker. “Your breeches are soaked, they need to come off.” Patiently, Jack waited until Norrington nodded. Then he climbed back to his feet. “Lift your hips.” It was far easier with the sick man’s co-operation. As the wet fabric peeled away from cold skin, Jack took stock of the fresh injuries. More bruises, some clearly those where fingers had dug deep into flesh. A series of lacerations down his left thigh, more on his belly. Anger burned in him. Anger at the men who had abused Norrington so, and also at himself, at his failure to find a way out before all this new damage had been inflicted.

A knock sounded loudly at the door, startling them both. “Hang on.” Quickly, Jack pulled a sheet over Norrington’s nudity, and went to the outside door. He opened it just long enough to take in a bucket of steaming water and a jug of fresh, before closing it back, not letting Gibbs inside. 

All his equipment for physicing was in a box. He dragged it out and pulled it into the smaller cabin, setting it next to the water, opening the polished wood lid and hoping there was enough of use inside. Taking a deep breath, he smiled at Norrington with a confidence he deeply wished was more than a mask, and pulled the bucket near. 

The water stung his hands, and he washed them first, before taking up a clean rag and soaking it thoroughly. “I seem to be cleaning you up a lot of late.”

Norrington nodded, hissing softly as the cloth soaked dried blood from his face. “I am most grateful.”

Jack winced in sympathy. “I know. Now be quiet.” He worked the cloth around the cracked and battered mouth, working up to clean a deep gash over one swelling-narrowed eye. Seeing the damage so close made his belly clench tightly. Norrington had been lucky not to lose the eye. Somehow his nose had remained unbroken too. Under the bruises and grime Norrington had a fine face. There, better to be distracted by that than to think on what had happened. A fine face and fine body. He’d look forward to it all being in good health. Which it would be. He brought a pot of salve from his physic box and opened it up, taking some on his finger and smearing it into open cuts and grazes. Norrington’s eyes flickered open and a frown set two lines between his dark brows.

“What…?”

“It’ll help you heal.” Leaning over the still man, Jack let his fingers sooth. “One of the Islanders told me about it. It works, I promise ye.”

The frown cleared, and he nodded slightly, his eyes falling shut almost immediately.

“I’ll get ye a nice bath in a day or so.” Touching the prone man, Jack felt the shiver that racked through him. “Nice, eh?”

“God, yes. I would be most deeply in your debt.” Norrington swallowed, his head turning to one side, his over-bright eyes just focussing. “More than I am already.”

“No debt, Jamie. Just an accord, remember?”

“Yes. I remember.” He spoke softly, slowly, sounding drugged by exhaustion and pain.

“Good, now be quiet.” 

While the Pearl sang around him and they headed deep out to sea, Jack worked on. After a little while he paused to light fresh candles on the bedside, and with their illumination set to again. Constantly rinsing the cloth, working fast so as to keep the water warm as possible, he cleaned salt stains and blood, dirt and worse, using a sheet to dry the areas he had done. He was very careful around the deeply bruised belly, careful not to touch too hard, or press too deep as he swept the cloth over the warming skin. Further down he was careful too. Norrington’s sac was swollen, from being kicked or twisted maybe, there was no way of telling, but his own balls lifted in appalled sympathy.

Muttering softly he eased Norrington onto his side and cleaned the weals that wrapped his back and ribs and arse. Shivering himself, biting his lip, he washed into the cleft. No blood. Though would that extra pain have mattered now? He wasn’t sure, and was just glad as damage there could kill. But then so could the fever that was visibly taking hold. For by the time Jack was wiping the long feet dry, James was almost insensible, his skin flushed and patchy.

The bed was wide enough for two and, though a tall man, James looked small in its depths. Jack pulled the covers over him, and smoothed the crimson blankets. He stared wearily at the flushed, insensible face, then with hands that hardly obeyed him, he clumsily stripped off his own clothes.

Lastly, with a frown, he remembered to put the bucket of fouled water outside. Someone would deal with it. AnaMaria was in charge of everything now.

With a weary sigh he peered out at the sky. In the time he’d been working it had become full morning. No wonder he was weary. Closing the doors he locked them fast. Light-headed, he walked back to his cabin. Light was spilling in through the high, mullioned windows. He snuffed the guttering candles, pinching the wicks between finger and thumb. Feeling old as Methuselah and far more tired, he drank some water, then carefully slipped between the sheets, gasping as his own warmth met Norrington’s chilled flesh.

With a deep sigh, he wrapped himself gently around the sleeping man, and in less than a second was deeply asleep.

::::

(Interlude)

Distantly he could hear voices arguing.

“Bad luck…”

“Get him off the boat. They’ll do more than hang us if ‘e dies here.”

“No.”

“He is dyin’ – face it!”

“No!”

“You’ll not save ‘im. Slip ‘im over the side and no one will know the better, Cap’n.”

“No, I tell ye!”

A pause.

“James, Jamie, can you hear me?”

He could, but somehow he had no voice. The wish was there, to reply, to reassure, but it was as if he was wrapped in wool, muffled and still.

“Come along, darlin’, just a sip.”

Something cold. He gasped and the cold thing trickled into his throat. 

“Yes! Good, now a little more.”

It slid down, the cold a line that traced from his mouth to his belly, burning as it ran.

“There.”

Something – a hand? – stroked his face, sweetly comforting. Through the morass of his thoughts came an image. A man, dressed in tattered velvet and stained linen, coins woven in his hair and a mad glint in his beautiful eyes.

Jack Sparrow.

“Jack…”

“Ah, gods, he knows me. Jamie, please…”

But the colour and sound faded back to grey, and he didn’t know who Jamie was, or what he was being begged for.

Darkness. Then:

The water was warm as a hot spring. He dived down, swimming hard, the water streaming past his face and hair, sliding along the naked length of his body. There was something ahead. Someone. He kicked toward it. Laughter, trapped in the current, drifted back to him and he swum on. A fish? No. Something else. He laughed too, water bubbling from his mouth as he darted around coral and reef, to see…

A tail and fins, long arms and long hair weaving patterns in the water. A mermaid. He laughed again and swam closer through the heat, and as he swam she turned, and he saw it was not a maid, but a man, his tail long and scaled purple and gold, his eyes dark as obsidian. A man indeed. Slim, supple as water-born seaweed, beguiling as the sweetest night. He swam onward, to the beckoning arms. One touched him, and he lifted his eyes. Seeing. Seeing the wicked smile and dark invitation. Seeing the coins and jewels that were strung in the skeined and plaited hair.

Jack.

The merman smiled and, the sea like silver around him, leaned in for a kiss.

Pain!

He knew he screamed, and was sorry. He’d vowed to be silent, whatever crimes they committed on his body. Shuddering, he felt himself pushed under water and knew this for a new torture. Cold. Colder than he’d ever been. He shuddered, striking out blindly, amazed he was not tethered.

“Hold him!”

No, they wouldn’t… He fought, gasping as he broke the surface and found air. 

“James, stop, please!”

That voice.

“James, we need to get your fever down, please, please don’t fight!”

He stilled, worn into nothingness by the sudden absence of fear. After a little time, when he felt hands holding him, soothing him, he opened his eyes. “Jack…”

There was water on the thin, lovely face.

“I’m James.” It was a surprise, but it felt right.

“Aye.” Jack was laughing. Norrington frowned. Or was he crying? “That you are.” His hands were like brands, so hot on his frozen skin, a kiss like fire on his mouth. Suddenly he was shivering again. “Gibbs, help me lift ‘im.”

The world turned. Lifted, lowered, he lay and watched the rigging play against the sky as he was wrapped in something soft. He’d had a fever. The merman wasn’t real.

Or maybe he was. Norrington felt himself being raised up, and knew he was held in Jack’s arms. The merman smiled at him. And not all the water was tears.

 

 

 

 

::::

James Norrington awoke to the feel of a very warm body curled against him. As feelings went it was pleasant, and quite novel. He had rarely slept with a lover, rarely had the luxury of a bed wide enough or time long enough to indulge such hedonism.

He lay quite still, enjoying the lazy luxury, until he realised that the world was moving around him, so he was on a ship of some kind, and that the figure nestled so closely up to him was without doubt a man. He frowned, but memory was elusive. Tortuga. He’d been in Tortuga, yes that was it. Looking for Jack Sparrow…

His eyes blinked open as the floodgates of memory parted to let a hundred images into his mind. O’Connell laughing, the boy risking all to help, the moment he had seen Jack Sparrow standing in that ruin of a church. Capture, escape. The cycle repeated. And finally the long night on the beach, and the fever overwhelming him as he was brought on board Jack’s precious Pearl .

He shivered, and the slight movement awoke the man next to him.

“James?”

Jack Sparrow. Holding him. A thousand complex emotions collided, resolving into a low groan as he tried to move. The arms slipped from around him, and the bed creaked as his companion sat up.

“Jamie!”

There was such alarm in the one word, that Norrington could have laughed. Awkwardly, and not without a low gasp, he shifted onto his back. The dark eyes of his fever-dream were narrowed in consternation. Norrington wanted to sooth the frown away, but his arm was too heavy to lift. Instead he smiled. “Hello, Jack.”

A hand touched his forehead. It felt warm against his skin. “The fever’s gone.”

“I remember you talking to me.” Blinking slowly, Norrington finally found the strength and lifted a hand. Jack took it in his own, one thumb rubbing slowly back and forth.

“How d’ye feel?”

“Fine. Sleepy.” Bone weary, the thought of moving was quite unnerving.

“Drink something, then sleep for another hour or so.” Gracefully, perfectly at ease with his nakedness, Jack stepped onto the floor and went to Norrington’s side of the bed. “Come, it’s just water.”

Blissful, glorious, water. It stirred another memory. “You drowned me!”

“What? Oh, no. You remember that? We were tryin’ to get the fever down.”

“I thought you were a merman.” He sighed as Jack helped him sit, holding the cup so he could drink.

“A merman?” The cup waited until he was ready, then tilted once more to his lips. “I hope I was a good one.”

“Lovely.” Jack was grinning down at him, and he almost laughed, though it translated as a slight twist of his lips.

Sipping slowly, he looked around. The cabin was quite large, with a tall window that was letting in the first glimmers of early morning light. Through the shadows he could make out that he was lying in a proper bed: wide, with curtains all about, linen sheets, blankets and a thick eiderdown folded at its foot. All of it undoubtedly pilfered. The bed was perhaps Spanish, the carving being ornate enough. Solid and probably nailed to the deck, it was a great luxury. But he supposed being a pirate was all about the search for the rich and the luxurious in life. The cabin was as large as his own on the far bigger Dauntless , and everything in it was of finest quality. Chests, boxes, bed itself, all fit for a prince – or a pirate.

It was strange to think he was on a pirate ship. Though for some reason it was less strange to think of himself in a pirate’s bed. Jack took the cup from his hands and Norrington settled back onto the pillows, smiling as he closed his eyes.

Sleep wound around him, curled tight for a while, then slowly unfurled. He awoke again, less bleary, with Jack lying still at his side. It was as if no time had passed at all, yet the light was different and he must have slept again for hours. He stirred and Jack was sitting up at once, looking down at him through a tangle of dark hair.

“Awake?”

Norrington nodded.

“Water?”

All Norrington had to do was smile, and Jack had slipped an arm under his shoulders, easing him up, a cup held for him. Norrington drank eagerly, then lay back, panting slightly.

His back resting against the headboard, Jack cradled the cup in his hands. Norrington thought he looked tired. “So, after frightening me half to death, how are ye?”

A good question, one he didn’t care to address too closely. “I just… ache.”

“After three days of fever, that’s no surprise.”

Three days? Norrington let out a long breath. “You cared for me.” It wasn’t a question. Or even thanks, though that was how he meant it.

Nodding, Jack placed the cup at the side of the bed and twisting, leant over him. He gently touched one of Norrington’s hands. “Your wrists were rotten with infection. We’ll need to keep an eye on them.”

Lifting his hands, flexing them, Norrington felt their weakness, the pain that seemed to come from deep in the bones. They’d been bad enough before the last session in the ropes, but now? He winced as he looked at their ugliness. So many scars. He laughed softly, humour a distant thought. “This is all for hubris. I used to congratulate myself on never having taken a wound.”

“Well, you’ve enough now.”

“Yes.” Norrington nodded his agreement. Enough.

“A couple of tattoos and you’ll be as beautiful as me!”

Sharply glancing up, he registered for the first time the marks on Jack’s body. As the room grew light with morning, he could see the details of scarring as well as the dark patterning of tattoos. “Let me see?”

Obligingly, Jack peeled back the covers and sat up, folding his legs neatly under him, quite happily naked for James’ inspection.

A life was there on his skin, painted in blue and welted in pain. With careful fingers Norrington touched the mass of scarring on one arm, then traced slowly up to the ship that sailed on the smooth chest, her sails shimmering as if in a fine wind as Jack took breath. Over, he lingered on what could only be bullet scars, ones so deep it seemed scarcely possible a man could live to survive them. There were no marks around the strong, fine neck to tell of a recent dice with death at a rope’s end, which lifted his heart. He touched a braid, then let his arm fall to where a hand rested lightly on a knee. There were fresh burns on his skin there, and more on his wrist, though the brand was still clear through it all. A brand that, until the day Jack died, would proclaim him pirate .

“You were hurt in the fire?”

“Hardly.”

“Enough. Thank you.”

Jack shrugged, dismissingly. “Flame’s a tricky thing, the marks are nothing, a few blisters is all.”

Norrington hesitated. “I like the tattoos.” He stroked the bird that flew daintily over a skin-born ocean, then looked up. Jack was staring at him, intense and hot. Not meaning to tease, Norrington let his hand fall away. These were things to be remembered, for when he felt whole again. “Do you carry your whole life on your body?”

“Aye, I seem to.” Jack gave a single, sharp shiver, then he smiled and, with a jangle of coins and beads, peered down at himself. 

“Tell me about them?”

“This is the Pearl .” He touched his chest, stroking the galleon inked on his skin. “So she’ll always be with me, you understand. This is my sparrow.” His hand brushed his forearm. “So I’ll never forget who I am, no matter how much rum I drink.” He twisted, showing the back of his shoulder. “This ‘ere’s a Chinese word, amazing how they write, eh? It means freedom – or so they told me, though for all I know it could mean anything. I was in Macao – dangerous place that, full of magicians – well there I was ‘appy as a lark, just about to find meself a pipe of opium and there, this sweetest girl comes up to me and asks…”

But the words faded, no matter how much Norrington wanted to hear the story, his eyelids were too heavy. He relaxed back into the pillows, blissfully closing his eyes, listening to the voice if not the words, hearing only comfort as he slid gently from awake to asleep.

::::

The smell made his belly rumble. It was either the noise of that, or the noise of Jack laughing, that woke him. Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was a tray piled high with food.

“I let you sleep through breakfast, this is dinner.” Jack was there, dressed in breeches and shirt and sash, standing by the bed looking very pleased with himself. 

God, he was hungry. Pushing up into the headboard, he also realised something else. “Jack, I need to piss.”

“There’s a chamber-pot under the bed.” Jack walked around and, pulling it into the open, held it in his hand, frowning. “Though I think you’ll ‘ave to sit up.” He thought about it. “Though standing might be better.”

“Standing,” Norrington stated firmly.

“Right.” Setting the pot on a low wooden chest, he came back to the bed. “Need a hand?”

“Please.”

Sitting was easy, getting his legs out of the sheets no problem. Standing seemed a little more difficult, but Jack balanced him, held his arm until he was firm on his feet. “I feel weak as a newborn foal.”

“Less messy.” Jack made a face. “Come on.”

Three steps to the pot and the relief was bliss. His piss was dark amber, feathered with traces of dark red.

“Better than it was – you were pissing almost entirely blood a few days ago.”

“Oh.” Norrington let himself finish then shook the last drops away. “How long have I been sick?”

“This is the fifth day, for three of them you were out of your mind.”

“Oh.” Time had slipped away again. Though this time at least he had the fever to blame. And he had been cared for. Cared for with great skill. “I thank you.”

The dark brows lifted expressively. “What was I going to do, let you burn up, wither away into a corpse? No, Jamie, not after all the trouble I went to finding ye. See?”

Norrington thought he saw. Maybe. Turning slowly he closed the space between them. “So I’m your investment?”

“You might say that. And one I intends on lookin’ after.” Jack kissed him lightly on the cheek. “So come and eat up your stew.”

Stew. That was the smell. His belly rumbled again. “I’m hungry.”

“You sound like it’s a surprise! Well, all we’ve managed to get down you for days is water and a little broth so no wonder.”

“Was I a terrible patient?”

“Bloody awful. Though according to Gibbs, I’m worse.”

“Imagine that.” He smiled innocently, then cautiously went back to sit on the bed, supported by the pillows. The food was enough for a king. Or a commodore and a pirate. Balancing the bowl cupped in his sheet-covered lap he lifted the spoon, holding it in fingers that felt as if they’d been stuffed with straw and ate, slowly, doggedly. It was good. Fish with vegetables and a lightly spicy seasoning. He ate more than half before admitting defeat.

His own bowl done, Jack looked up. “You finished?” At the nod of agreement he took the half empty bowl and put it with his own, back on the tray. “Fruit?”

“No thanks.” He was tired again, and while Jack sat and skilfully ate a mango, sucking the pulp from a slit in the skin, he let himself drift.

It was night when he stirred again, climbing out of a sleep tormented by darkness. Jack was in bed, warm down his side, and that was reassurance. After a while, he felt steady enough to climb from the bed, and this time he managed to use the piss-pot all on his own. Someone had left a bowl of fruit beside the bed, and standing, staring out to the night-hued sea, he ate a persimmon. Exhaustion was still there, dragging at his thoughts and limbs, but it was not the appalling weakness of before. He was healing. Flexing his shoulders, he felt the drag of scar-tissue on his back. It had been shaming, being whipped like a dog. Whipped and derided for his inability to hide the pain. O’Connell had enjoyed himself far too much. Norrington shivered, and wondered if he was dead, if the pirate had burned in the conflagration Jack had conjured in the old house. He hoped so. His dreams were too full of pain, and the memory of eyes that relished every moment of it, for him to wish anything else. He would heal, mind and body, in time. His body would always bear scars, but the bruising would fade, and the nightmares would hopefully leave him be. In time. Maybe he’d even regain all the strength in his wrists.

Turning from the window, he went back to the bed, standing there for a moment. Jack had removed the scarf from about his head, along with the whale bone, and his dark, ragged hair was spread on the pillow about his face. Norrington stared his fill, wanting more light but content with the shadows that set the high cheekbones into such stark relief. A merman in his bed. No fins or tail, but enough mystery to salt all the oceans.

Slipping back into the warmth, he shivered as a wiry arm curled about him and a soft snore sounded against his ear. He lay still for a long time, listening to the deep breathing, content to be alive. To be here. Now. The past was something he didn’t want to recall, and the future? It hurt to even consider it. What he wanted, really wanted after a lifetime of doing and being what he believed others wanted him to be, was here. With this man.

And what insanity was that?

His own. Pirate borne.

The thought was strange, but of a certain sweetness, and he was smiling as he finally drifted away into sleep.

::::

He was alone the next day. A boy brought him food and emptied the pot and the close-stool – an on-board luxury Norrington had been most grateful for. He only smiled when asked questions, and after a while Norrington stopped bothering him at all. Besides, he hadn’t the energy, it was far easier to sleep, or simply to lie still, rocked by the Pearl , listening to the crew going about their business, waiting for the moments Jack found to come and visit. He never stayed long, but he was there, often, with a tale or some sweetmeat, or simply with a smile or a touch. Once Norrington awoke to find a dish of mango at his side, the fruit neatly sliced, spread into a fan on the blue and white china. He ate it slice by slice, the coolness of it as good as the sweetness.

In the afternoon, after a meal of bread and cheese, he sat up in bed and examined himself. The bruises were all royally purple bleeding into yellow and green, but mending well enough. The burns on his chest and stomach were all healing, slick under the salve that Jack insisted on spreading so liberally. Everything would take time, the cuts and gouges, the muscle damage to his flayed back and torn shoulders, the deep scoring around his wrists that ached so under their bandages. He could flex his hands, though the fingers were stiff, as were his shoulders – hanging for so long had torn something deep, and from his shoulders to his finger tips he felt as if none of his body quite fitted any more. He could only trust that time would heal all that too. The weakness was trying. He had strength enough to stand, but little else.

Sleeping was far easier, and feeling worn, he gave in again and again, curling into the sheets that smelled of Jack Sparrow, letting his body rest there. 

Jack returned with darkness and supper. They ate together, companionably, hardly talking at all. Afterwards, Jack placed the remains on a tray outside the door, then returned with the box that held his unguents and bandages. Patiently, Norrington let him work. The long-fingered hands were very gentle, and there was no pain, not really.

When Jack was done, Norrington lay back, regaining his breath, and smiled when Jack stripped and lay beside him.

“It’s early…”

“I’m tired too.” Jack kissed his neck, and wrapped a cool arm lightly around his ribs. “Sleep is good for us.”

“Yes, Cap’n.” And Norrington was smiling again as he slept.

The dreams were just under the surface. Nothing sweet, just the bitter rehashing of pain and humiliation. Of O’Connell laughing, and his own certainty that death was here, with this man, in this place. In the dreams there was no Jack, just himself and the men who laughed when he screamed. He was sobbing when he awoke, and it took him a moment to realise it was Jack’s arms that were holding him, Jack’s voice that soothed and comforted. 

It took a long while, but he slept again, held tight this time, and the strong arms that held him somehow kept the nightmares away, so it was full morning when he awoke. Jack was sitting in bed, dressed in shirt and breeches, reading.

“Mornin’ Jamie.”

“Jack.” Norrington licked his lips and swallowed. “I think I have sleeping sickness.”

“Don’t worry, I think you’re past dying of it.” Smiling, Jack closed his book and reached for the cup of water. “Here, drink.”

Easing up on one elbow, Norrington took the cup. He drank it down gratefully, and handed the cup back. After a moment he realised he felt a good deal better. “Though it seems to have done the trick, I feel much improved.”

“Good.” Jack was peering at him. “Yes, much better. Your skin was exactly the colour of wet parchment yesterday.”

“And today?”

Jack made a wry face. “Well, dry parchment at the very least.”

Norrington laughed softly, the sound so unexpected that he stopped at once in surprise. “I do feel better!”

“Good.” The smile was indulgent.

“What are you reading?”

“Words, words…”

“Ah, Hamlet?”

Jack nodded, the skin about his eyes crinkling in delight. “The Dane himself, though his bleakness makes me want to slap him.”

“Better to laugh at the world?”

“Infinitely.”

“What would you have done to Claudius?”

“Tripped him off the battlements and been done with it.”

“No agonising?”

“None at all, after what he did.”

An eye for an eye – a simple creed. He’d kill O’Connell himself, for what he’d done. “O’Connell…” Damn, it was hard to ask.

“Is he chasing us?”

Norrington sighed in relief. “Yes. He didn’t die, in the fire, did he?”

“I doubt it.” Jack shifted, making the bed creak. “I’ve told the crew to keep a sharp eye out for sails following us. Just in case. But there’s no need to worry, we’re not following any particular course, and the seas are wide enough to hide us.”

“You think he’ll try to follow?”

“Perhaps…”

“You burned his treasure.”

“And stole you. He won’t rest easy. But he won’t find us yet, so we’re safe enough for a while.”

Norrington stretched, arching up as his muscles cramped, pain fading as he relaxed. Rotating his shoulders he gauged the improvement, for there was some indeed. The same with his wrists. “I want to be ready, when we do meet again.”

“Revenge?”

“It shouldn’t be that simple, but it is.”

“Unless I kill him first.” Jack placed his book on the bedside, and slipped down, curling onto his side. He was frowning. “I should’ve done it then, in that damned house.”

“There was no time. And you’ve done enough. You saved me, Jack. I owe you greatly.”

“Hush!” A finger stopped his lips. Jack’s face was tight, the skin thin over his cheekbones as he stared, intent, his eyes stormy. “You owe me nothing.”

“Just my life, Jack.” Norrington smiled, the words easy, the meaning utterly true. “Not just because of what happened. Or maybe it was through that, that I came to feel all the rest.”

“The rest?”

“The wanting to be here…”

“In my bed, with me?”

It was a deliberate question, and Norrington gave it a deliberate answer. “Yes.”

Jack shivered, a groan sounding deep in his throat. “When you are mended, Jamie, oh, when you are mended…”

There was such promise in the roughened voice, such passion. Norrington looked at him, and almost gasped aloud, the heat in the dark stare was close to scorching. “Jack…”

“I want you, James. Feel.” And gently he took Norrington’s hand and placed it to his groin. There was heat there too, and hardness. Norrington did gasp then, as his own body surged in response. 

“Yes, Jack…” The distance was closed, and Jack was leaning over him, the kiss so light, so gentle as to almost not be there. Greedy, Norrington followed it, lifting his head to chase the lips that were already being taken away. “Please?”

“Oh, gods, Jamie, you’re not well yet, I am a fool, and cruel as well.”

“Jack, stop.” With a hand on one taut arm, Norrington stilled the almost fleeing body. “I want… I want you to: See?” And he pushed the sheets back, baring his body, showing his own cock, uncurling thickly at his groin, not hard as such but hopeful. “I would, but…”

“Be still.”

“I can’t…”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything.” And kneeling he bent, his face skimming down the skin of Norrington’s chest and stomach, a kiss here, a lick there, all so gentle.

“But…”

And then there were no words. Norrington gasped in wonder as his cock was taken into Sparrow’s mouth, as he was sucked and licked and teased, and around it all the soft scratchiness of his beard was deliriously sensuous. Despite his injuries, the moment was so arousing that he was hard, his length taken unbelievably deep into Jack’s eager, wanton mouth, held there and cradled, mouthed and swallowed. It hurt when he came, but the sharp pain in his balls was nothing to the pleasure, to the delight that shook him deeply, that left him panting, eyes unfocused as the small shocks left his muscles twitching.

A face loomed over him, and blinking he focussed at last. Jack. Smiling. Norrington reached up and slowly ran a thumb over his reddened lips. Determined, he tried to sit up.

“No.”

“No?” Norrington narrowed his eyes. “Fair’s fair, Jack.”

“And fair it was. See?” And he knelt back to show the front of his breeches, where the pale material was darkened wetly. He shrugged wryly, smiling like a boy. “I’m not usually so intemperate, but…”

Norrington blinked. “You came?”

“Aye. Like an angel.”

“I didn’t touch you though.” The words were slurred. He was so tired, so content.

“You didn’t have to, Jamie. I’ve been ready since you kissed me in the church tower.”

“Sweet heaven…”

Jack was laughing softly as he shifted and came to lie back at Norrington’s side. “Go back to sleep.”

“Aye…” And held again, safe again, he did.

::::

Jack was up and about early the next day, and Norrington kept to his bed, sleeping and reading. When a midday meal was brought, he asked for water with which to wash himself, and that brought a muttered, aye. But what the ‘aye’ meant was a curiosity, as nothing was brought to him at all. Sitting on the edge of the bed he knew himself to be restless, and wondered what would be said if he went up on deck. The thought was tantalising. Fresh air, the sea, and a certain pirate captain at the helm of his own ship. What more delights could the world hold in store?

A pair of frayed breeches, along with a linen shirt, lay over a chair. He eyed them speculatively, and then stood up slowly, for even though the worst of the dizziness had left him, he didn’t trust his balance completely as yet. But his body, though stiff, seemed obedient, and dressing was not too problematic. He buttoned the shirt and left it loose over the breeches. The pirate crew were hardly likely to chastise him for being slovenly dressed. The thought made him smile wryly. From what he recalled of their conversation, they were far more likely just to disapprove of his entire being.

Well, he had executed enough of their number, and disapproved of almost their every activity, so it seemed fair.

Opening the door, he stepped through into a much larger room, one as luxurious as an admiral’s stateroom. Curious, he walked through the open doorway. Charts, bottles and various strange incunabula lay strewn across a wide oak table. All around were sconces for candles, books, fruit, more charts, all piled high, every ledge and surface littered with things, with shells and stones, with coins, crowns, gold glinting from everywhere. Jack’s. It all had to be Jack’s. He fingered a large lump of amber that lay next to a piece of carved tusk. A heathen god danced on one leg whist playing the flute, his eyes rubies. A necklace, its catch broken, lay tossed over an open book. Curious, he brushed the pages with his fingers, reading: At length we reach’d AEolias’s sea-girt shore… 

It was enough to make him smile. It had come as no surprise that Sparrow could read – his education was clear, if usually hidden under a multiplicity of disguises. That the slim volume was Homer should have been less surprising still. Who else to speak of the romance of distant places? Of travels through wild and perilous seas? Though did Sparrow, too, dream of home? Norrington let his hand fall back at his side, and stared around him in realisation. There was no brick and mortar home for the pirate, for this was it. A home made from wood and tar and hemp and sailcloth. Leaving the book he slowly walked over to rest his hand on the old, pitted oak that served as a wall. The ship hummed contentedly beneath his hand. He could almost hear Jack. Patting her conspiratorially, he headed past the great swathes of curtains that guarded the main doors and, opening them, stepped out onto the deck.

Immediately the breeze hit, he lifted his face. The air tasted sweet, the salt tang like mother’s milk. He grinned at the sky, at the sea, and accidentally at a pirate walking past with an armful of rope. Raising a hand in greeting – which was ignored – he walked forward, then slowly made his way up the stairs to the quarter deck, his bare feet firm on the sun-warmed wood. There, one hand on the wheel, his eyes dreamily lost in the cloud strewn horizon, was Jack Sparrow. Exactly where Norrington had thought to find him.

“James!”

Climbing the last few steps, Norrington watched Sparrow hand over the wheel to a woman. She glared as Jack walked away, frowning first at her captain and then, with decidedly more enmity, at Norrington. One of the voices that had threaded its way through his fever dreams had been a woman’s. The one who wanted to toss him overboard – without the grace of waiting for him to be dead first.

But then Jack was near him, and he was being embraced by careful hands. “I didn’t think ye’d be up as yet.”

They parted just enough to stand, still touching, with their hands light on each others’ forearms. Norrington watched the breeze tug at Sparrow’s hair, and smiled disarmingly. “I was restless.”

“A good sign.” Jack inspected the form in front of him intently. “You know, ye look altogether better.” He sighed happily, and Norrington could smell rum strong on his breath. “Nice clothes. Not exactly uniform, are they Jamie?”

“Not exactly, no.” Staring down at himself, seeing his own bare feet, pale and white next to Jack’s sun-browned ones. “But I see you don’t stand on ceremony when aboard.”

“Ceremony? What’s that?”

“I begin to think it might be something very overrated.”

“Ah, careful Commodore, or ye’ll be thinking less like a Navy man and more like a scallywag.”

“If that means bare feet and cool cotton in the Caribbean heat, then maybe I’m ready to be seduced.” He hesitated, the word there, between them before he’d really thought it through.

“Now, Jamie, is that an invitation?” The words were a whisper, but the bright challenge in Jack’s painted eyes was loud and clear.

“I…”

Laughter, sweet and low, greeted his confusion. “All in good time. I’ll not tease ye yet. First of all, I think, a tour of the Pearl ! What d’ye say to that?” Standing back, he bowed extravagantly. “My ship awaits your inspection, Commodore.”

“Before the rains start?”

“Aye.” They both stared up at the vividly blue sky, then across to where the clouds were gathering on the horizon. Jack made a face at the growing storm. “I hate the bloody rainy season, and it’ll be upon us soon.”

“Better than the North Sea, though, surely?”

“Or the Channel – where you’re more likely to get rain every day than any sun at all.”

“Have you sailed past Greenland?”

“You mean up there with the ice and the snow and where the sea-monsters live in oceans the colour of four day old gruel? No, why’d I do that?”

“No idea. I went because I was ordered to. Can’t say as I enjoyed it much.”

Jack, shivered. “Hate the cold, nasty stuff. It gets in y’r bones and rots ‘em from the inside. That’s why I love the Caribbean. Sun, endless blue seas and plenty o’ rum.”

“And plenty of plunder?” A glance pierced towards him and Norrington felt ashamed. “Sorry.”

“No worries. You’re right, there is plenty o’ plunder and all the good stuff that a scallywag loves.” But his shoulders were stiff, and some of the ease was gone from his face. “No argument there.”

There was a moment’s silence that stretched. Then Norrington took an uneven breath. “I am your guest, Jack, and deeply in your debt. I apologise, it isn’t my place to condemn your habits, not here and now. Please, try and consider the words unsaid.”

“You’ve a sweet tongue, Commodore.”

His mouth tasted of ashes. Why was truth so important? Surely the lessons of this strange time were of the importance of the now, and not the paths that led to it. “I… I really am sorry. Your life is your own.”

“Is it?” And he stepped closer, his face smooth and calm, though the depths of his dark eyes showed the fires that were dampened within. “Jamie, my life is a feather, drifting with the wind. I am a creature of whim and desire, there is nothing in me of determination or purpose, other than those given by the moment, by the need for this or that – though mainly a ship under my feet and the sea spreading forever around me. Take what ye wants, give nothing back – that’s what we say. Us. Pirates. And everything I believe is in those words. The whole damned world is my oyster, but this is the pearl. This,” he tapped his own chest, just over his heart. “And this.” His hand spread, encompassing the universe that was the Pearl .

“Jack…”

“I am an honest man, though I lie, cheat and steal. I know I can be both honest and dishonest, do you?”

“I believe you to be honest, Captain Sparrow. Honest and good.”

“Then apart from my dear departed mother, ye’re probably alone.”

“You confuse me beyond measure, Jack.” He frowned, a pain somewhere deep in his chest surrounded the thudding of his heart. “You…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Please, just forgive me.”

“Ah, Jamie, I do that.” Jack smiled a little then. “Ye know, I worked for a living once. I sat in a tiny office and worked on drawing charts for a man who had all the warmth of your icy Northern wastes.” He turned slightly away, gripping one hand to the ship’s side, the other to a shroud that ran up towards the mast. “I sat in that dim hole for twelve hours a day and barely had enough coins in my purse to feed myself or keep a roof over my head. All I dreamed of was freedom. Of being in the places I was drawing, of coral reefs and palm-fringes beaches, of towns with foreign names and people who didn’t frown in misery every hour of the day. Even then I was odd. I talked to myself, I conversed with the stars and smiled at ghosts. Madness, they called it. Probably still do. But I got away. I’m here, and there is the sea, an ocean blue from sky to sky. And I have no office, no desk, and care not one jot if any man tells me I am wrong in the head - or in thought or deed.” He tilted his head back, and his eyes were sad. “Savvy?”

“Yes, I savvy.”

“And what d’ye think, then Commodore?”

“That I am a fool. That you deserve your freedom, and though I cannot ever say that theft is right, or that piracy is anything other than a crime, I find myself envying your freedom.”

“Then let yourself enjoy it.”

Norrington nodded. Reaching up he let his hand rest next to Sparrow’s where ratline met shroud. Their skin touched, and the shock of connection was bone deep. He gasped, biting his tongue to stifle the sound, and saw Jack’s eyes widen in equal response.

But before anything more could be said, someone was at Jack’s side. “Cap’n?”

It took a moment for the dark eyes to turn away, then Sparrow seemed to shake himself, and his hand slipped back to his side. He straightened, slim shoulders elegant under the worn cotton of his shirt as he faced his crewmember. “Aye?”

A glance at Norrington was full of curiosity. “What ye asked for, Cap’n, we found it.”

“Ah.” Jack’s smile was sweetly secret. A finger traced over his lips. “Did ye now. An’ ye knows what to do with it?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Good and warm, eh?”

“Yes, Cap’n. We’re already at it.”

“Good man.” He laughed then, and slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Well done! Off ye goes – we’ll be along in a while.”

With one last look at them both, the boy gave a shrug, then trotted away.

“More mysteries?” 

“Ones you’ll like, Commodore, believe me.”

“I’m finding more and more I like, Captain.”

“Really?” A speculative glance that almost burned, and Jack was turning, a grin fighting on his lips. “Then let’s start with the beautiful mystery that is my Pearl.”

As swiftly as it had gone, the ease was back, allied with a certain joy. With the sun heading into the clouds, they slowly walked the length of the deck while Jack lovingly shared every detail of The Black Pearl . Slowly, working from stem to stern, he showed Norrington his ship, and with bemusement Norrington saw how the crew without seeming discipline did the work that was needed, keeping the vessel neat and trim and surprisingly clean. Below decks was just as much a surprise, and though it was full of the strangest things, and the over-brimming belongings of every man on board, there was a sort of order. All the damage from the fights she had endured – and that which must have been there from Barbossa’s tenure as captain – had all been made good. Perhaps even made better. Jack clearly had spared no expense on his beloved.

From beak head to cable locker, from galley to powder room, they walked until Norrington could feel exhaustion dragging his feet and finally they came back to the stateroom. Where, in the centre of the room, the table had been pushed to one side, and the space was now filled with a tin tub. A bath, in fact. One that was half filled with steaming water.

::::

“Jack?”

“Your wish, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes…” Hot water. Norrington shivered in blissful anticipation.

“I thought you might like it.” Jack was looking very smug. He stepped to the table and touched his fingers across the small array of goods laid out there. “And as I am a genius, I thought ye might like a shave too.”

“You are more than a genius, Jack. I…” He stopped dead, it was all overwhelming. There was even a cake of soap. “Thank you.” He felt humbled.

“Hush. Just get yourself in the water before ye falls over.”

Grimacing, Norrington sighed. “You noticed.”

“Pale you may be at the best of times, Jamie, but I’m sure you’re not usually that lovely shade o’ grey.”

Touching his own face, feeling the beard encrusting his skin, Norrington shook his head. “I’m just tired.”

“And still ill.” Jack tugged at Norrington’s sleeve. “Shirt. Unless you’re getting in fully clothed?”

“No, no.” Norrington started on the buttons, still amazed at what Jack had conjured. “Didn’t your men object to doing this for me, I mean, they seem to have little love for me.”

“I wonder why?” Tutting softly, Jack leant over conspiratorially. “Ye think it might be something to do with your being a man who traps pirates for a living?”

“Possibly.” Guilt pricked at his conscience, but Norrington could not deny the charge.

Jack was smiling wickedly, teasing without any animosity. “One who usually wouldn’t set foot on a pirate vessel for anything less than the execution of his duty?”

“That too.”

“But who ‘appens to be ‘ere now, and is sharing the captain’s bed?”

“Ah…”

“Still, they won’t do anything daft.”

“Not even the woman who, I believe, wanted me thrown into the ocean.”

“Ah, ye heard that. I did wonder. They would argue over you like you were already fit for a winding sheet.”

“I’m not sure she was caring to wait that long.” Norrington thought back, though the memories of so much of that time were hazy, he recalled the voices speaking over him with clarity. “Though in her favour I think I was closer to being dead than I was to living.”

“A fine fight I had with you. You can scare a man like that, Jamie. I’d be obliged if ye didn’t do it again.”

“I will endeavour not to, Captain.”

Satisfied, Jack nodded. “That’s settled. Now, into the tub with ye.”

Unfastening the buttons on his breeches, Norrington nodded at the water. “What about you?”

“Later, though I usually prefer my water salt.”

“As in the sea – where there are sharks?”

Shaking his head, Jack sighed. “There are places where the sharks don’t go, and the water is warm and clear enough to see fifty feet ahead. You’ll love it.”

“Will I?”

Jack frowned. Head tilted to one side he looked disbelieving. “Unless ye can’t swim.”

“I can swim, Jack. I had no desire to drown if I ever fell in the sea, so I taught myself as soon as I knew I was going to be a sailor.”

“That’s all right, then.”

“So one day I’m going swimming with you?” It was all very confusing.

“Oh yes. But first you’re getting the rest of the way out of those clothes and getting’ in the water before all the work of the crew – who as you noted were none too pleased at the task to begin with – goes to waste an’ it gets stone cold.”

“You ever take breath?”

“Waste of time. Now – get in!”

Smothering a smile, Norrington stepped out of the breeches and slid the shirt off his arms. Naked, curiously unnerved by the proximity of the other man, he stepped quickly into the water. Some sloshed over the side as he settled, knees bent, his head level with the tub’s rim as he sat back groaning.

“Good?”

“Perfect.” It really was. The ship rode the waves very sweetly, and lying back, looking past Jack to the tall windows, and through them to the sea and sky, he felt an emotion so strange that it took a long moment for him to understand what it was. With realisation came wonderment, so much so that he wanted to hug with amazement everything around him, from the day, the time, the sheer vibrancy of being alive, to the man standing over him.

So this was how it felt; happiness.

Strange to find it somewhere so foreign to everything he had worked for. Everything his life was supposed to mean.

“What’re ye thinking, Jamie.”

Rolling his head to one side, slightly giddy with exhaustion, he smiled up at the fine, concerned face. “Strangely, I’m thinking that I’m happy.”

“Strange?” A slight frown slid between Jack’s brows.

“Strange. Yes. ‘Tis not something I knew I was lacking, but apparently so.”

Shaking his head, beads and coins jingling, Jack looked close to disbelieving. “If all it took was a bath, Jamie, well…”

“I think it is more than just that.”

There. An admission. He swallowed, and turned his face away. At once he started to clumsily undo the bandages around his wrists.

A hand stilled him, the fingers gentle, though the feeling of it made his whole skin tingle. “James.”

Just his name, spoken softly. Norrington looked up, feeling hollow inside. “Yes?”

“Let me?”

Ah yes, that was what his lungs were for. Breathing again, Norrington held up his arm, watching as the long fingers stripped the dressing away, cautious at the last, peeling the strip of cotton away from healing skin. A gesture, and Norrington lifted his other arm, water dripping back into the bath, to reach across and let Jack work on that one as well.

“Don’t soak them too long.”

“No.”

“And Jamie?”

“Aye?”

“I’m happy too.” And bending, the pirate captain kissed him, his lips warm and sweet, tasting of sunshine and rum, of salt and the spice that was himself.

Norrington shivered, and brushed his fingers against the long neck, marvelling when his touch caused the other man to shiver in return. He parted his lips, and sighed as the kiss deepened. Under the water, his cock stirred and, wanton, he moaned helplessly into the other man’s mouth.

Leaning back, wide eyed, his lips wet, Jack shook his head. “Bath first.”

“Tyrant.”

“Captain…”

“Hah.” Swallowing as he slid his arms back into the water, Norrington let his head rest on the bath. He watched as Sparrow went to the table, returning with something in his hand.

“Soap. Knew it might come in handy when I found it in Barbossa’s effects.” He winced. “Hope that don’t put you off?”

“No, truly.” Nothing could put him off. Though the memory of Barbossa and the appalling fight with the skeletal crew rode high on his lift of worst days ever, too much had happened since for the memory to hurt. He took the offering from Jack’s hands and sniffed it. Not lavender, more rose. A woman’s scent, not that it mattered. He sank further down and let the water’s warmth ease his limbs as the kiss had eased his soul. Pleasure simply given, yet more complex than alchemy. “Thank you.”

“For the bath? Don’t thank me, I just gave the order.”

“For that. And just for the kind thought.”

For once, Norrington knew he had disconcerted Jack, and he wondered if, under the paint and sun-tanned skin, the pirate was colouring with embarrassment. 

“Well… I was bored with washing you in bed.”

“Did you?”

Jack nodded agreement. “You were making the linen grubby.”

“Oh.” Norrington started to soap his arms, working slowly and gently around the healing skin. “Who does your laundry?”

“There’s a boy, he sees to things like that.”

“The one who seems to be almost pleasant to me?”

“Aye, he’s new. Probably don’t know your hobbies.”

“One man to whom I am not an ogre, then.”

“There’s another.” Jack grinned. “No, not me – though I don’t think of you as an ogre either, come to think on it. Remember back in Santo Domingo, the boy who helped you? Nice child, name of Adebayo Smith, terrified of O’Connell?” Norrington nodded, looking up briefly from washing his feet. “Well, he tried to help again, and I told ‘im to run. If ‘e makes it, we’ll pick ‘im up in Tortuga.”

“You’re a kind man, Jack Sparrow.” And a mystery with a thousand layers. Kind, good, fine and a pirate. What sense was there in any of it?

“Kind? I just needed another crew member.”

“Of course.” Trying to not laugh, Norrington ducked his head under the surface. He came up in a splash of water, a small wave just missing a nimble footed Jack. Awkward, his arms weighted as if with lead, he began to work the soap through his short, sweat-matted hair.

“Come on, let me.” And the soap was taken, and to his great delight Norrington found himself attended by careful hands that rubbed the soap through his hair, massaging his scalp in a way that left his mouth dry and his body more alert than it had been in a long while. Relaxed and warm, he let himself be rinsed clean. He sat forward, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him. “Not yet – shave first.”

He had no objections. None at all. Especially as it seemed that Jack was as skilled with a razor and strop as he was with knives and swords. Anything with a sharp edge then. Or maybe just anything. The pirate of a thousand skills. As the steady hands lathered his chin, he looked up at the braids dangling towards his face. Amber and silver, stone and glass. “Is each one a story?”

“These?” A shake of his head made them dance.

“Yes.”

“Mostly.” The long razor blade started on his skin. “I pick things up that I like. Sometimes I’m given them. There’s no rhyme or reason to it really.” One hand rested on Norrington’s neck, as the other swept the cold blade through his whiskers. Hot and cold, hot and cold. “Lift.” A touch under his chin and he tilted back. Jack’s eyes met his, and smiled, the corners crinkling as though under direct sun. Norrington blinked, and closed his eyes as the blade moved on. Cheeks and neck, chin and jaw, the movement sweet and smooth, not even close to snagging his skin, not even the last remains of the cut over his mouth, or the bruises that still mottled his skin. When it was done, Jack carefully towelled his face dry and patted his cheek. “Perfect.”

His fingers were wrinkled from the water, but he smoothed them over his cheeks. It was a better shave than from many a barber. “That feels wonderful, thank you.”

“Looks better too – you’re not a man for a beard, Jamie.”

“Unlike you?”

“Oh, I like these.” He tugged at the braids that dangled from his chin. “Exotic, don’t ye know.”

Norrington laughed. “Exotic?”

As if explaining to a child, Jack spoke patiently. “Pirates need to be colourful – how else are we to be told one from another?”

“I can’t see you ever being confused with another.”

“Ah, but would ye be saying that were I just another would-be dandy like O’Connell?”

Norrington shuddered delicately. “There is no comparison. Ever.”

“Oh, I think so too, but thank you.” He bowed slightly, then held out a hand. “Out ye gets, or ye’ll be like a prune.”

“Too late.” Norrington held his hand out, palm first. “Though I’m a very clean prune.”

“My favourite kind, come on.” So Norrington offered his hand, and allowed himself to be helped upright. Water cascaded from his body, but he stood, his knees quite firm. Though they weakened considerably as Jack eyed him, top to toe. 

A mischievous grin, swift as a spark in the night, and Jack took a pace back, allowing Norrington to step out of the tub. He dripped onto the Turkey carpet, upright, though Jack held on, making sure his charge was steady before letting go. “There.” He reached for a cloth, and shaking it open, held it for Norrington, wrapping it around him, and hence surrounding him in his own arms as well.

“Jack…” So close. Dark eyes, just there, serious, slightly narrowed. Norrington hesitated, then his mouth quirked into a smile. “For a pirate you make a very good manservant.”

“Hmm, used to this from your servants are ye?”

“Well, maybe not quite this level of intimacy.”

“What level would that be - this?” He rubbed his hands down Norrington’s back, the fingers only stilling when they cupped his arse. “Or this.” A shift of thigh and they were groin to groin.

“Ah, God.” He laughed softly, alight with joy. “That’s… good.”

“Good?” Jack looked mildly indignant. “Good is nothing. Let’s get to my bed and I’ll show ye better.”

“Better?”

“Or possibly best – though that might have to be worked up to. When ye’re well.” A hand smoothed his cheek, and Norrington leant into the caress. “Jamie, the things we will do…”

Almost blind, Norrington nodded. “Anything.”

A laugh tickled his ear, and a warm tongue licked him. “Things you’ve never dreamed of.”

Norrington shivered once as Jack pulled away, and let himself be led to the bedroom, to be laid on the bed. He stretched out, quite incapable of movement, or even any thought – if any purpose to that thought was required. He watched Jack strip and come and lie next to him, warm as summer, hot-eyed as first love. Curling onto his side, Norrington slipped a hand around the slim waist and tilted his head, smiling as he was kissed softly. 

“Jamie…” His name on Jack’s lips as they touched his own. Norrington smiled again as an arm curled under his head and drew him close. “Sleep now.”

“No!” But the objection was soft, his body already half there, his arousal just enough to follow him through into a dream, a dream of Jack and waves and sunlight, of the sweetness of serenity. Of dark eyes that glinted with mischief, and of a body that held him tight. Most of all the dream was of whispered secrets; words shared, spun from shadows and the past, wrought into a different meaning, one by one, like jewels taken from darkness into light.

He awoke once, very late. The sky outside the window was dark, cast about here and there with the brightness of stars. Norrington stirred gently, and felt the arms around him tighten. Jack was dreaming, his face tight with tension, his skin damp with sweat. Turning a little, Norrington freed one arm and lifted it to smooth the deep frown. After a while the anxiety seemed to lift, and Jack went back to sleeping more easily. Lying awake, Norrington watched him for a long while, before he too gradually slipped back into sleep.

TBC

 

 

 

::::

The next morning he was on deck early. Claiming a spot by the stern he settled on the warm deck and put himself to the twin tasks of watching Jack and reading Homer. Both were equally delightful, though in truth more time was spent at watching than at reading. Once or twice Jack came to him, once with water for them to share, once just to sit with him for a while.

About midday he took a few turns of the deck, walking back and forth, around and about, testing his body. He even tried a few exercises, simple ones that stretched his limbs and joints, finally realising that he did trust his body to mend. The fear that had nagged him, that he would be partially crippled, never able to use his shoulders and wrists easily again, had gone. That morning he’d even left the bandages off and rolled his sleeves back, to let the air heal his lacerated skin.

But he still felt tired. And after a while he returned to his bed and slept, waking to Jack’s presence and a tray laden with goat stew, bread, cheese and fruit. When the remains were gone, Jack leaving the tray outside the door as was his habit, Norrington stood up, purposefully naked. He was still tired, yet it was as if every part of his body was at war with itself; exhaustion and desire battling it out, with desire the victor. When Jack returned, Norrington simply stared at the pirate, and watched as Jack closed the door, locking it, before turning to lean against the wood. Watching him, James hesitated, then walked slowly to him and brought up a hand to touch his shirt, just where the cotton opened and the inky mark of a tattoo peeked out.

Taking the hand, Jack brought it up to his mouth, kissing the knuckles, the fingers, and laying his mouth on the curve of the palm, pressing it close to his flesh. James lifted his head, his blood running hot and fast. Lazily, he was pulled forward, and brought close. Kissed again, lips to palm, then lips to wrist, the touch tender against his scars. Sparrow was so warm, his skin like honey left in the sun.

He felt no shame, no hypocrisy. This was what he wanted. That thought alone – that acceptance – was as liberating as chains cut from his soul. And he wanted Jack Sparrow naked as well. To see the skin he had touched. To have it all.

His fingers picked awkwardly at the small mother of pearl buttons that fastened Jack’s shirt. One at a time he worked them free, pulling the shirt up, tugging until it was loose and open, skin golden and smooth before him. He bent then, and brushing cotton aside kissed a dark nipple, aware just before he lowered his head that Jack’s eyes were closed, his face caught somewhere between delight and wonder. Well, James had his own skills. Unpractised as they were.

He licked, and felt the nipple tighten. Again, and Jack arched back into the door, a soft gasp spilling from his lips. It was very sweet to induce such a response, sure as he was that the pirate was well versed in the all bedroom skills. Probably in some his own education had failed to mention, let alone supply.

“Jamie.”

“Mmm?” He raised his head, straightening as Jack shifted, slipping out of the shirt. Hands dropping to his breeches, he unfastened them and began to push them down, his cock pressing against them, darting up as it was freed. Norrington’s own flexed responsively at the sight.

“Bed.”

“Oh, yes…”

Pushed back, kissed on shoulder and neck, handled with care and sureness, he fell back into the soft mattress. Jack followed him down, easing him back. Something sharp poked him, and with an impatient sound, Jack lifted a hand and pulled off his scarf, the sea-urchin spine coming away with it, and tossed it all onto the floor. His hair spilled around his shoulders.

As Jack leant over him, Norrington cupped his face, smoothing his thumb over a cheekbone, rubbing the paint that darkened the skin under the intensely focussed eyes. “You paint yourself like a savage. Why?”

Amusement was there. “Truth or legend?”

“Both.”

“It helps me see when the sun strikes blindingly off the sea. That’s truth. The legend is just in how it makes me look – exotic.”

“Oh, yes. Piratical.”

“Unique.”

“I like it.”

“You do?”

“Mmm, you’d look good painted and wigged for a London season.”

“Not wigged, please.”

“Painted then. Your hair combed and loose, the envy of every woman.” He ran his fingers through the dark mass, careful of the snags. “Your body dressed in silk and satin.”

“And you too?”

“Aye, My Lord Pirate. I could wear green and you could wear black. With silver.”

“Emeralds in my cravat and in my unpowdered hair.”

“Sapphires for me.”

“We could flirt outrageously and fuck behind a curtain while society danced demurely on the other side.”

“I’d kneel and suck your cock.”

“I’d hold your head, press you down, spill my seed in your mouth…” Jack gasped then, as if the images were too strong. Almost moaning in need, Norrington pulled him down.

“Jack, kiss me again.”

The pirate obeyed, his tongue opening James’ mouth, his breath hot. Pressing up, James licked past the open lips and delved into warmth. Not soft, the kiss was demanding. Beard rough against his skin, James rubbed into it like a cat craving attention, his own face unbearably sensitive after the shaving. Jack sucked his lower lip, teeth sharp and hard, biting deep enough to make James groan, his hips jerking upwards. Another bite, and intoxicated, he moaned again, the echo spinning back into his own mouth. Oh, the man was skilled; the kiss took him apart, explored him, scoured him clean of everything but the immediacy of desire, until he was whimpering, hands scraping at Jack’s skin, begging, pleading… until pity let the kiss end, and Jack was leaning over him again, his own eyes wide, needy, his mouth wet, reddened.

There was no possibility of subtlety. His breath uneven, edged with desperation, James almost cried out as Jack pulled him between his thighs, both of them on their sides, strong hands cupping James’ buttocks as his own hips pressed eagerly forward. James needed… no, he couldn’t reason it. Couldn’t think or voice what it was – he just needed. There was a shoulder by his mouth and he bit down, shuddering as his cock was pressed tight to hot and straining flesh, as Jack was sobbing into his ear, as the whole of the world span down into the weight of his balls and the feel of skin against skin. It was there, no. Not there. Here. And he arched, screaming into the muffle of shoulder muscle, his seed burning as it spilled from him, again and again, as Jack’s body shuddered under his hands, and he knew that it was Jack’s seed as well as his own that spattered hot and slick between their bellies.

He trembled sporadically with the aftershocks. Unlocking his mouth, he kissed the bruise he’d left on the warm skin.

Never, never… Not like that. Not in his dreams. From a distant place he found the energy to lift his hand and stroke the long hair that curled over his chest. Tendrils of it lay on his face, and he turned into them, pressing his face to Jack’s head. Slowly the head turned, and Jack eased away. Just far enough to focus, not so far they were not entwined at leg and arm.

“Jamie…”

James could only lie there, bemused, blissful. His eyelids felt heavy. It was rude to sleep now. Unconscionable. But… 

The mattress shifted, and Jack was rearranging him, settling him. It wasn’t unpleasant. He smiled as an arm curled protectively about his shoulders. No, it wasn’t unpleasant at all. The last thing he was aware of was Jack’s voice, humming tunelessly to him as he fell headlong into sleep.

::::

(Interlude)

Jack knew he was dreaming for his name was wrong. Not Sparrow. Not yet. It was something else, something the darkness hid from him. Pressed into a corner, his eyes blind, he sat and sang to the night. Though it could have been day, for all he knew, he preferred to think of it as night. Dark and shadowy, hiding his secrets. Hiding him.

Hands pulled over his scalp, his shaved head alive with lice, he tucked down, knees to nose, feet one upon the other in the ordure that lay thick upon the floor, he watched the darkness shift with shapes. Ghosts, he thought, ghosts of those who had lain in this place before him. All mad, of course. What else would they be. And mad ghosts were strange things. Sometimes they just drifted past, tearing at their silvered hair and rending at their garments. At others they stayed and laughed at him. Maybe those who laughed where not ghosts at all, though they frightened him just as fully and he couldn’t help but scream at them to leave him alone.

The dream, which had to be a dream, for his name was not Sparrow, made him sweat and groan in the darkness. The room was small, too shallow to stand in, and too narrow to lie, so he crouched, weighted down by a metal hoop welded around his middle. It clanked when he moved, the thick, heavy chain struck fast to a ring cemented into the wall. Though where they thought he would go, he wasn’t sure. Unchained, what could he do? Fly though the shutter in the metal door, when they opened it? Crawl like a worm though the earthen floor? Maybe they thought he was a magician and the metal was all that kept him from vanishing in a puff of dust and excrement.

That thought amused him for a whole day. Or week. Or month. He had laughed so long his throat had ceased to make sound, and he had cackled soundlessly. More ghosts came and laughed at him then. Which made him scream until his throat bled.

Solid darkness was the sweetest.

The shutter clanging back and his enemy leering at him was the opposite. Sometimes the broad, bristled face would stand there and eat his dinner, drooling mouthful by mouthful, smacking its lips and licking its thick fingers. Sometimes though the food was given to him, and Jack ate it slowly, wonderingly, scarcely remembering why he did so.

Jack knew it was a dream. A dream that lied. A dream where he slept to the sounds of other inmates screaming. To pain and humiliation. Where the dreams within the dream were all of flight and freedom. Even the small freedom given a sparrow, its tiny wings spread wide, fluttering in the air as it swooped from branch to branch, or its beak busy with seeds as it hopped from stalk to stalk of an endless field of barley.

When he’d been chained he dreamt of freedom. Now he was free, he dreamt of being caged. At least he knew this freedom to be real. Mostly. He only scared himself when reality became hazy, and he wasn’t sure which dream was true.

But his name was the anchor. And the rolling swell of a ship. His name was Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow. He had no idea who Jack Dawkins was. The name, with the young man it belonged to, had been left behind, long ago, to rot. He was a sparrow now. Flying free. Free. But the darkness mocked his determination, and the shadows laughed, on and on.

 

 

 

 

::::

A sound awoke him. Lying still, James Norrington held his breath. Dry-mouthed, skin prickling with fearful anticipation, he opened his eyes to a room full of half-light and shadows. Not the cellar. He wasn’t there in that darkness, and the simple knowledge made him almost faint with relief. He took a long, uneven breath that caught fast in this throat as the sound came again.

A whimper.

Jack. Jack’s body warmly wrapped around him. Too warm, slick with sweat and quivering. Norrington stroked his hand over skin, feeling the slight roughness of scarring under his fingertips. The body stilled, words, only half formed, totally incomprehensible, were muttered against his chest.

“Jack?”

His answer was another sound, one utterly filled with despair. A nightmare, it had to be. A man with his past must have more than a few demons. The bitter thought was instant, as was the ashamed rebuttal – for the nightmare could be of anything. Anything at all. Norrington ducked as a hand swept suddenly past his face, but he caught it, and with a twist of his body he flipped Sparrow onto his back, and was leaning over him, staring at his anguished face.

“Jack, please…” 

Nothing. Though the body he was half lying on twisted suddenly as if trying to curl in on itself. “Jack!” Another sweep of the arm almost knocked him sideways, but he ducked in time so it merely caught him a glancing blow over one eye. “Jack, wake up!”

The panicking body stiffened. Then, shuddering once, was suddenly very still.

“Jack, it’s all right. You’re on the Pearl … please.”

A soft gasping breath. “Jamie?”

“Yes.”

“God.” He tried to turn, found himself trapped under Norrington’s body. “Please?”

Shifting to let him move, Norrington watched as Jack rolled to one side, and slowly, painfully moved to sit on the edge of the bed. His face dropped wearily into his hands. Norrington pushed back until he was sitting against the headboard. The sheets where Jack had been sleeping were clammy with sweat. He fingered them, wondering.

“We all get nightmares.”

A short, ugly laugh was his reply.

Norrington flinched and looked towards the windows. It was getting darker. They must have slept the afternoon away. He touched his chest, fingering the scars on his own skin. He’d lain with a pirate – and it was the pirate who awoke from nightmares. He shook his head, and turned to one side, his hand reaching out to Jack’s skin. The slim back arched away as if burned when he touched it.

“Jack, please?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually sleep with someone. And the dream…” He shook his head slowly, and when he spoke his words were muffled. “It doesn’t come that often.”

It seemed cruel to ask what it had been about. What could cause someone to be so unmanned? A dream about being hanged, perhaps? Guilt made him press hard into the wood behind him, the carvings digging into the tender skin of his back merely a just penance. To dream of death after lying with the man who had tried to cause it? If it were so, did he want to know? As the ship swept into stormier seas, as the darkness deepened around them, he gathered his courage.

“I’m sorry.”

Straightening, Jack turned his face, even through the shadows it seemed bemused. “What for?”

“For what I did.” He reached out again, and was overwhelmingly comforted when Sparrow took his hand and shifted so he sat facing him, one leg curled on the bed.

“James, you’re speaking in riddles.”

He took a deep breath. “Your dream, there was such horror.” Ah, where was his courage when he needed it. “I believe it was of being hanged, when I caused you to...”

“No, you’re wrong.” He wiped his hands over his face. “So wrong.” He sighed then, the sound deep and long. “Jamie, trust me, that is not something I dream about. And even if I did, I would not be blaming you.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, for goodness sake, this darkness, I can’t see what you’re thinking.” He reached for the table and found a flint. After a moment a candle sparked into flame. Then another. 

Norrington looked at him, at his fine face in the stark light, at the bones that lay so close to the skin. A beautiful man. What could there be in his past that was worse than nearly dying at a rope’s end?

“That’s better.” He smiled then, just a little, and leaning forward came close to James’ face. “An’ I can see you.”

“You can’t see what I’m thinking.”

“So I can. You’re racked with guilt and you think you’re the cause of everything, from plague to storms at sea. Well, you’re not.”

A smile twitching at his lips, Norrington lifted a brow. “Really?”

“Really.” He came closer still. “The dream was of long ago, and high time I stopped havin’ it, if you ask me.” Closer, his eyes seemed to dance with the candle flames. “But I am feeling a mite peaky, and in truth I can only think of one thing to make it better. Which, if you want to help, might just go better with two.”

His cock was stirring already. The proximity, the heat that spun off the near body. “Jack…”

“Ah, you get my drift, Jamie.”

“Yes…”

“A kiss then, to make it better.”

How did you kiss a dream better? Norrington tried to think it through, but his lips were caught, trapped by Jack’s and the thought fled into nothing. Warm and sweet, the tongue delved into him, opened his mouth and took possession. Offering himself, he eased back and down, as Jack - one hand braced on the headboard - pressed more closely, the fingers of his other hand cupped around James’ head, bringing them closer, deepening the kiss. A thumb stroked behind his ear. James moaned then, hearing the sound slip into Jack’s mouth, feeling the response as Jack gauged his need. The kiss became more insistent and he willingly opened wider, fingers knotted in the crumpled sheets as he was explored, Jack’s tongue sliding across palate, teeth, under his tongue and over his lips, only to slide away so teeth could bite him, their sharpness enough to make James gasp, arching up, heady with need.

Jack laughed then. The sound low and soft, wicked in its unashamed delight. He was still laughing as he bent, his mouth tracing down James’ chin and neck, to lick and suck just where his blood ran so close to the skin, the teeth still sharp as he nibbled, the bite deepening as James groaned. 

When his nipple was licked, he cried out, and he tried to pull Jack down, to touch, to have. The laugh, that same soft laugh, stopped him, and a finger tapped his cheek as Jack moved to straddle his thighs. “Patience, Jamie…”

“Monster…”

Another laugh, which was buried as Jack kissed him again, this time with one hand reaching under his balls, massaging upwards with sure fingers. He would have screamed, but he was too busy kissing, fighting to open his mouth wide enough, to take Jack deep enough. Another press and he was gasping for breath, his cock hungrily reaching up, blood pounding in his ears.

“Sweet, sweet, Jamie.” A wicked smile, and Jack was bending again, licking downwards, sliding his legs straight so he was almost flat, his head raised enough to kiss and lick as he wormed backwards, skin against skin so glorious that James was struggling to breath, to think. No, not think, to touch…

But when he reached out fingers wove through his own and held them fast to the bed. A lick traced the line of his groin. A suck made his sac tighten. Another lick on his thigh and his muscles were trembling like a rope drawn overly tight. “Jack…” His mouth was so dry he couldn’t speak, the sound no more than a groan that struggled from his lips.

His scream was silent when his cock was swallowed. He arched up, the darkness behind his tight closed eyes striated with colours as he was sucked into unbelievably tight heat. Not once, but again and again. He couldn’t last. The pleasure… it was too much, too sweet, too powerful. His hands released, he touched the dark mass of hair, stroking jerkily as Jack raised himself slightly and simply took all his cock in one lunge. And held there, his nose tight to James’ heaving belly as James’ eyes flew wide open and he came, hard and fast into Jack Sparrow’s throat.

Sweat dripped from his face. He shuddered as Jack slowly lifted his head, his mouth like fire on over-sensitised skin. Helplessly, James pulled at his shoulder, tugging him up the bed, his own hand reaching for Sparrow’s groin.

“Touch me…”

The breathy word was command enough. Norrington cupped the heated shaft, fingers curling about its girth, thumb dipping in the slickness that dripped from the deep slit. He pressed hard as Jack shuddered and, as he squeezed, Jack groaned deep in his throat and came.

“Oh.’

After a moment, still breathless, Jack smiled at him, his eyes dark and lazy.

Hands cupped around Jack’s face, James kissed the swollen lips, just brushing against them. The kiss was returned in kind.

Grinning, Sparrow sat himself back on the bed, his hand still wound around James’ fingers. “I need to go up on deck. We’re heading for high seas.”

“The storm.”

“Aye.” He shrugged. “Mayhap it won’t be too bad. You stay here, rest.”

Norrington could already feel the need for sleep in his bones. “If I can help, come and get me.”

“If I’m desperate I will – otherwise, stay here and rest. I didn’t mean to…” He hesitated.

“To what? Make love again? I think I am well enough for that, Jack Sparrow!”

“That you are, Commodore, but I just don’t want to wear you out. I don’t know your stamina, yet, do I?”

“As good as yours, pirate.”

“Good.” A kiss was planted on his nose, and then Jack was up and off the bed, reaching for his clothes. He dressed fully this time; shirt and breeches, waistcoat, boots, belt and coat. The only piece of clothing he didn’t wrap around himself was the sash. The last thing he did was to tie the scarf around his head. As he knotted it fast, he glanced at the bed. “Stop staring at me, Jamie."

“Why? I like looking.” Lazily, curled on his side, James watched unashamedly.

“Even when I’m dressing, not undressing?”

“Yes. Though I think I’d like that too.”

“Then look your fill.” And he bowed, arms sweeping the air, as courtly as any lord. “Though now I must be off. Sleep well…”

Unlocking the door he opened it wide, blew a kiss back to the bed, and was gone. The room was extraordinarily empty without him. Pulling the covers over his shoulder, Norrington lay quite still. His body ached, all of it heavy as lead, but it mattered not at all. Staring at the candles he lay still, feeling the shift and lurch as the ship fought the sea. It felt strange to be hidden away, when for years he would have been the one out there drowning in rain and spray. Strangely, he had no sense of urgency. He trusted the ship’s captain. Trusted him maybe more than anyone he had ever met. The realisation curled him deeper into the bed. Who had he last trusted? His first captain? Governor Swann? Neither. Certainly not Elizabeth. Maybe he had to reach back into his childhood, to his sister perhaps, who was long dead, or his tutor, but his trust for them had been different: his sister because he was the strong one and how could anyone not trust a child as innocent and kind as she had been, or his tutor whom he had trusted because the man had known so much, and he had been kind, gentle, so vastly different from his father. No one was like Sparrow. No one at all.

::::

 

 

 

 

 

Jack was soaked and half-addled with exhaustion, when he returned to the cabin. Closing the door behind him, he slipped into his quarters, hoping that James would be asleep. But, he was sitting in bed wearing the shirt for nightclothes, reading by the light of a candle. Jack stood in the doorway and dripped.

“Bloody hell, Jack.”

“It rained.” 

“So I see.”

“But we’re through the worst. All masts intact.” Norrington was getting out of bed. “No, I’m fine, I’ll just strip off.” His fingers plucked ineffectually at his belt, and he frowned down at it, sure that it undid that way.

“Give that here.” Warm hands pushed his own out of the way, and the belt was undone, peeled off, along with his coat and shirt. It was all very business-like and efficient. A sheet was pulled off the bed and draped around his shoulders. Norrington knelt.

Jack giggled. “All the same, darlin’ but I’m not up to anythin’. Don’t think I could get it up at all, ‘n fact.”

“Idiot. I’m going to take off your boots.”

But the hands were unfastening his breeches. “Don’t look like me boots. You seeing straight?”

“As a falcon, Sparrow. Now stop talking and,” a tug brought the fabric down around his thighs, “sit on the edge of the bed.”

He sat with a thump, rocking backwards, actually tipping over when James lifted a leg to strip off first boots and then breeches. The other leg followed suit. The ceiling looked a long way away. He stared up at it and frowned as it moved. No, he was moving. Being moved? Yes. Pushed and pulled up into the bed.

“You’re frozen.”

“Couldn’t leave the wheel.”

“For six hours?”

“She wanted me there.”

“AnaMaria?”

“No, the Pearl .”

James was rubbing him all over with the sheet, brisk and fast, not in any way suggestively, but somehow Jack’s cock still gave him the lie and found the energy to stir. Perhaps he was less cold, tired and drowned than he thought he was. Or maybe James just had magic hands. They were certainly warm enough. It was lovely, feeling them touching him, caring.

“Good grief. You’d come to a stand on your deathbed.” Ah, he noticed.

Jack waved his hand, fingers pointing in all directions. “Actually, that’s common. ‘anged men die with a stiffy. Sort of a final consolation.”

“Well, you’re not dead yet, so shift over.”

Jack shifted, and sighed as the wet sheet was pulled away and the blankets brought up to cover him. He shivered happily. “That’s nice.” All cocooned and getting slightly warmer than a block of ice.

The sheet was suddenly attacking his hair and he batted it away. “Jack, keep still, you’ve a tonne weight of water in here.”

Obediently, he stilled. It was pleasant, really, the cotton rubbing through his hair. The scarf must’ve come off in the storm. Oh, well, he had more. Scraps of cloth, pretty as birds. His eyes closed, and for a moment he must have slept, for the next instant a warm body was wrapping itself around him. “Lovely…”

“Wish I could say the same. Christ, you’re cold.’

“I’ll soon warm up. Kiss me, that’ll help.”

“Incorrigible.”

“Pirate…”

“Is that your excuse for everything?”

“Absolutely – pirate, captain, pirate captain. Kiss?”

Norrington sighed, and kissed him. A peck on the cheek.

“Hey!”

“That was a kiss.”

“I’m greedy, I want more.” Jack pouted.

“You’re bone white with exhaustion, how will any excitement help that?”

“It feels nice.”

“Damn, now you sound ten years old.”

“Not an arousing idea?”

“Good gr… No!”

“That’s a’right. Come here, Jamie, kiss me.” He wriggled around, so they were face to face. “I like your kisses. I like you.”

“Ah, Jack, as I like yours and you as well. Daft, damned pirate that you are.”

“You make it sound like a crime!”

“I hate to break this to you, but I rather think it is.”

“Bugger.”

“That too.”

“So, everything’s illegal?”

“Only the good stuff.”

“Ah, makes sense. Where’s my kiss?”

“Here.”

He sighed happily and opened his lips to Jamie’s sweetly searching tongue. It felt warm in his mouth, cosy, until it slipped away and, with a chaste press of lips to cheek, James pulled away. “Is that it?”

“Yes.” So firm. Jack wriggled again. Ah, yes, firm there too. “We could –”

“No, we couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me in the bath. I’m just proving that I can be equally tyrannous.”

“So this is by way of revenge?”

James giggled. There was no other word for it. Amazing, you’d never have looked at that uniform and imagined the man inside could laugh, let alone giggle. “Absolutely.”

“I should’ve ‘ad me wicked way with you then, then you might ‘ave pity on me now.”

“You can’t be desperate – twice in one day and a storm contended with!”

Was he desperate? No, but he wanted to touch James, to hold him. While he was here. In case he ever wasn’t. “Jamie, I just want to feel you.” Did that sound too pitiable? He didn’t feel wretched. Just, maybe, a little in need. Which really was wretched. He began to turn away.

“Don’t.” A hand stilled him. “You are a manipulative creature, Jack Sparrow, and we are not, repeat not, going to indulge in any pleasure of the flesh apart from kissing. But if you turn your head… like that…”

Ah, yes, the kiss was so good. Their lips hardly touched, but it was enough to make him content. He lay still, head resting on a crooked arm, his own arm wrapped lightly around James’ ribs. He shivered, which made the other man pull him closer, though he wasn’t really bone cold anymore, just chilled and warming fast. James’ mouth brushed his cheek, and he could feel the other man was smiling. “What?”

“I was thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“I know.”

“So, what were you thinking?”

“Ah, that. Well, that I hope we don’t have any storms for a while, and that you don’t have to go and get wet and tired – unless it’s here with me.”

“Ah.” Jack smiled too. “A quick prayer to the weather gods then.”

“That would be most acceptable.” He paused. “You don’t have to sacrifice chickens or anything?”

“No, just make love well and often.”

“A most acceptable bargain.”

And though Jack was the one who had been battling the elements and wearing himself out, it was Norrington who slept. Jack watched him, watched his face relax and his breath even out, lengthen. Strands of hair were curling over his forehead, and his lashes were dark on his cheek. The detail was so clear that it took him a moment to realise the skies were clearing and that the day was going to be fine and lovely. He felt the Pearl , listening to her heartbeat as he listened to Norrington’s. Both seemed content enough. But where the open seas were all that was needed to make the Pearl fly over the waves, her timbers singing, what would make Norrington happy? To go back to the uniform? Or to stay and be free of his past?

Ah, that was not likely. Not anything more than a strange dream that Jack was not even sure he should be having. Or why. Yes, why was this man important? He frowned, and peered at the sleeping face. Favoured, undoubtedly rich, gently brought up, pampered, officer, pirate catcher, the list went on. But the other list was more appealing: courageous, kind, amusing (not always intentionally), curious, captivating, capricious. The man had gone to Tortuga to search for him. And he’d been prepared to suffer rather than betray a boy he hardly knew. Fine qualities in any man, whatever moral ground he took. However confused he was about who he shared his cock with.

His eyes were the green of deep rock-pools. 

Bugger it. Jack rolled his eyeballs, disgusted with himself. Norrington was a man. One who was not averse to sharing a bed with one of his own kind, but who was clearly intent on marriage and children and a career that would end him in the Admiralty. What use had he for pirates, other than to hang them? Or fuck them.

Which was unfair. Norrington had come to this grudgingly, for the fact that he seemed to take great joy in it all. It wasn’t habit, more a rediscovery of something lost.

Jack shivered, his body alert and alive in a way it hadn’t been in so very long. Not since Bootstrap. And then, well, he’d been so young. So mad. A ghosting memory of the dream snipped at his thoughts. It was remote enough to make him merely sad. For time seemed to have solved one problem, if not the other.

::::

 

He was sitting on deck, lounging on a massive coil of rope when Norrington emerged. The sun hung bright overhead, and the sea was perfectly calm, shimmering in the heat. He felt lethargic, just like the Pearl who was basking happily, all sails hauled in as she sat out the calm.

Jack watched him walk across the deck, avoiding contact with those of the crew who were lazing about, dicing or working on scrimshaw. Mostly the men were below decks, though Gibbs was at the helm and AnaMaria was secreted in her own tiny cabin, probably making a doll of the Commodore and running it through with pins. 

Norrington appeared to be much better. His colour, under the fading bruises, was less pale, and his walk was straighter, less careful and almost back to its usual grace. Wearing the same breeches and shirt, his feet bare, he came up the shallow steps and rested himself against the rail just by Jack’s grubby feet. He looked amused, and his eyes, though narrowed against the brightness of the midday light, teased prettily. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I could ask, don’t you ever stay awake. Though I think you’ve extenuating thingies goin’ for ye.”

“Circumstances.”

“Aye, there’s the ones.” He hauled his feet off the warm wood, sat up, crossed his legs in front of him and leant forward, elbows on knees. “Lovely weather.”

He watched Norrington take a deep breath of air, seeing how his nostrils flared as he drank in the freshness bequeathed by the storm. There was scope for him to be such a sensual man. Or rather, to allow those tendencies in himself full rein. All it would take was the right set of circumstances. Which were damn useful things, Jack thought to himself.

“What’s amusing you?”

“Watching you enjoy the day.”

Dignity clearly affronted, Norrington looked down at him. “Why’s that an amusement?”

“Hush. I liked it, ‘tis all. No offence, Commodore.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” He sighed.

“’tis what ye are.”

“No. No, I’m not commodore here.” As he leant back, his hands held fast to the rail, the long fingers curled tight. He stared into the distance, and a lot of the ease in his body bled away. “And as you made clear, in fact I’m dead. So I have no rank at all.”

“You’re not really dead, James, I promise you.”

The pious sincerity at least made him laugh. Jack watched the way his face creased with amusement, the way his mouth quirked unevenly, and felt a rush of affection. But the closer inspection also made it possible to see that they were shadows under his eyes, not just bruises. So, sleep hadn’t been easy. “What did you dream about?”

Norrington looked at him in surprise, as if amazed that he guessed. Then he clearly remembered, and shuddered delicately. “Guess.”

Blood and pain, then. Jack stood up, uncoiling himself from the rope to stand facing the sea. Though they stared in different directions, their shoulders just touched. “You can still go back.”

“Can I?”

“Course! You’re – whatever you may be thinking – still Commodore Norrington. You can have your fancy house and hat and ‘ave that poncy git Governor Swann swooning over you. I mean, you don’t ‘ave to stay dead. Savvy?”

“Maybe not.”

Hating himself, Jack frowned at the fine pale line of a distant island and spoke cheerily. “Sure, they’d ‘ave you back.”

“Jack.” He felt Norrington half turn, but he didn’t move. “Jack, I am a failure! I lost thirty men to Barbossa, I let a hanging turn into a shambles, I let you go, oh yes, convinced I could catch you, but then saw nothing but empty sea for weeks and weeks and to damn me further, that made me happy. I was kidnapped - twice - by a sadistic bastard who really, really didn’t like me much and I failed to escape until you came along and rescued me. Add to that the fact that I lost Elizabeth to a blacksmith, so I doubt very much that Governor Swann will be swooning over me at all, that the disciplinary committee only just about vindicated my actions that led to the loss of The Interceptor and that I appear to have unaccountably lost my sanity because I think I might be in love with a pirate…” he broke off sharply. 

Turning to him, Jack saw the sudden apprehension that drew the dark brows together and left Norrington biting his lip. “Jamie?”

“No. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” He began to turn, but Jack stilled him, curling his hand firmly about one taut upper arm. 

“Don’t be.”

“If you laugh, Jack Sparrow…” The whisper was so unsteady.

“Look at me. I’m not laughing.” Watching the way Norrington swallowed, and how, as if bolstering his courage, he took a breath before raising his eyes, Jack kept his face very still. “See?”

Pained eyes searched his face, then eased. He nodded. “No, no laughter. You’re too kind.”

“I’m not kind, James.” He let his hand drop away from Norrington’s arm. “I’m arrogant, self-centred, drunken, debauched and strangely, mysteriously and quite unfathomably taken by someone who seems to feel the same way about me.”

“Oh.”

Jack looked deep into the green, perturbed eyes. “What we have here, without regard for whatever you decide about your future, let’s enjoy it. Live a little, Jamie.”

“I have lived, Jack.” Norrington’s eyes darkened, reflecting the sea, the sky and Sparrow himself. “But maybe never this intensely.”

The words sparked something deep within him. “Jamie… how I want ye.”

“You should hate me.”

“I hate what you did, what you were, not you.”

“I am still those things.”

“No. No you’re not.”

“I still would hunt pirates.”

“Even me?”

“Jack, no, not you. But you are the strangest pirate I’ve ever seen.”

“Strange, but interesting, don’t y’ think?” Jack grinned, clasping the rail tight. But his grin faded fast, for he wasn’t really laughing. He searched James’ eyes, but found no answers, just confusion, lust, and yearning. Without waiting for a reply, he stood back. “Right, let’s see the rest of the Pearl .” And with an easy motion he leapt onto the rail, standing there for a moment looking down at Norrington’s surprised face. Then he was climbing. After about twenty feet he looked down, feigning bemusement. “Aren’t you coming?”

Norrington, one hand lifted to shade his eyes, was squinting upwards. “What for?”

“For fun, Jamie!”

“Oh, that…”

Jack laughed and climbed on. After a short while the ratlines quivered under his touch and he knew Norrington was on his way. Hand over hand, up, the air here lifted from stillness by the slightest breeze, he glanced back, seeing James’ dark head, his face concentrating as he made his careful, sure way upwards. Another twenty feet up, and Jack swung himself onto one of the yardarms, settling there, quite at home. 

Five minutes later, Norrington joined him.

“You couldn’t’ve managed that even a couple of days ago.” Jack patted his knee as he sat down, one hand braced on a lanyard.

He was breathless, pale. Jack wanted to lick the sweat off his top lip. So he did. He grinned at James’ affronted expression, and reached up to brush the dark fringe of hair from his eyes. His hand was flapped away. “Jack, stop it!”

“Why? Afraid the sea birds’ll blush?”

“No… it’s just – unseemly.”

Jack couldn’t help it, he laughed until he thought he might fall off his perch. “Oh, Jamie, I need you, just as you are to keep me cheered.”

“Glad to have been of service.” Very dry voice. Face that looked, if anything, resigned. Jack couldn’t resist, he leaned over and kissed it.

“There, a sign of my gratitude.” He giggled again. “But, tell me – is kissing in the rigging an offence in the Navy?”

“Kissing anywhere,” - he emphasised the word by careful enunciation - “is an offence. Between two men, anyway.”

Jack thought about it. “But it happens, so what? People just turn a blind eye?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes a strict captain will have the men flogged. Officers get demoted, or thrown out of the service.”

“Nasty crime, loving someone.”

“Vile.”

“Is that why you asked Elizabeth to marry you?”

“Why, so I’d have someone to kiss?”

“So you’d not be tempted!”

“Oh. Maybe. More I think, that I wanted to love her. She is very beautiful. Though I think she rules poor Will with a rod of iron.”

“Aye, not one to be gainsaid, our Lizzie.” Jack pondered for a while, watching the waves dancing around the Pearl ’s bow. “What about your pretty officer, Gill, Gull, Gillie –”

“Gillette. Or you might mean Groves, who is, I believe, accounted the better looking.”

“The one I got a little damp at the edges.”

“Gillette.”

“Him. He’s not interested in women, surely?”

“No idea. I think he lives with his sister in Bermondsey. He’s originally from the Welsh valleys though, so he could be interested in anything.”

“Ah, sheep.”

“So rumour hath it.”

They both grinned. Jack considered. “Never fancied a sheep, meself. Nor anything with four legs.”

“I should hope not!”

“Ah, that’s not seemly either is it.”

“ Animals, children and Rookery whores,  
They’re immoral, illegal or give your dick sores .”

“Nice rhyme, though I’m guessing it’s not something’ ye learnt in the officers’ mess?”

“I like to think I can learn from the men.” Norrington sat there looking virtuous. 

“I try not to – or I’d probably know more about sheep than your lieutenant.”

Norrington laughed, the sound soft, easy. Jack wondered at it, at him. As dreams went this was one of his better ones. Despite the nightmares that had slipped in along the way.

“James, show me your wrists.”

“They are much better…” He sounded dryly resigned.

“Aye, or ye wouldn’t be monkeying in the rigging, but show me?”

With a sigh, Norrington pushed his sleeves up and held out his arms, curled fingers up, as if presenting his wrists for chains. The marks were livid still, and though healing well the scars would be there always. It would be a long time before he was pain free, or adept at certain skills.

“I won’t be fencing for a while.”

“Nor doing any fine needlepoint.”

“Ah, my favourite occupation, taken from me so callously!”

They exchanged a look, amusement and shared dark humour. Then Jack bent forward, and kissed the marred skin. He felt Norrington flinch slightly, but the wrists were kept still, and he brushed his lips against them gently, all around, before straightening.

They sat companionably for a long time, just being, hardly thinking. The sun lowered and the breeze lifted, until in fact they could have made sail and been on their way. They did nothing though, just watched from their eyrie as the world dipped around them, their bodies touching at thigh and shoulder, at knee and where their feet brushed together, the touches hardly more than accidental, yet at the same time deeply meant.

Glancing sideways, he saw that Norrington was staring out to sea. Jack thought he looked happy. It was a good feeling, just sitting watching him. A glance was thrown his way, and Jack smiled wryly and looked down the vertiginous drop to the deck and the sea. The wind was lifting again, and the calm water was stirring, the waves breaking here and there with tiny spumes of white. Close by, a fin broke the surface, and then a dolphin lifted from the sea, arching high before diving back into the water. Just the one, just the once. Jack peered at the water, wanting it to happen again. There, a high leap, the silver body twisting in the air before it slipped back into the depths. He’d never tire of seeing them. Dolphins, porpoises, even flying fish – creatures that skimmed and leapt and defied their element.

The sea broke again and the fish leapt high, flicking her tail as she laughed at the less able Pearl .

“What a saucy…” Jack shook his finger at the now empty water. “You shouldn’t make fun of those less able!” A head popped up from the waves and stared curiously at the huge ship, at the man shouting at her from so high in the clouds.

“They almost seem human, sometimes.” Norrington’s voice was warmly amused. The creature swam backwards for a while, then with a sleek turn was gone. “Apparently the legends about mermaids came from when mariners first saw dolphins.”

“Are you trying to tell me that mermaids aren’t real?”

Norrington looked taken aback. “Well, yes.”

“Bloody ‘ell. You’ll be telling me there are no sea monsters next! Come on.” And he stood up, balanced lightly on the yardarm, and held his hand out.

“Where now, to see a sea monster?”

“Don’t be daft, there’s none around ‘ere. We’re going back down, o’ course.” He gripped Norrington’s hand and carefully pulled him upright. They stood for a moment, easy with the deep sway and roll of the becalmed ship. “As I’m hungry.”

“Hungry.”

“Aye, and after a bite to eat, I’m taking you into my cabin, locking the door and then showing you exactly how inventive a pirate can be.” He’d meant the words to be light, to keep the banter frivolous, but the look on James’ face, the want he saw there, the need, it gave him hope and despair as one, and before he could think too deeply, he twisted to one side and slipped, hand over hand, down the ropes and was gone.

::::

Jack Sparrow was the most infuriating creature ever. Norrington sighed in frustration. It took a moment before he could move, long enough for the other man to have reached the deck and be waving back up at him. Norrington climbed down slowly, taking the more sedate route, careful of his wrists. Finally, he stood back on the solidity of the Pearl ’s timbers. Brushing himself off, he stomped over to Jack, who was talking to a burly member of his crew.

A man who seemed remarkably familiar. Surely not, but, taking into account the years that had gone by, the deeper wrinkles in the man’s face and the darker red of his skin… “Mister Gibbs?” He knew he sounded incredulous, but he couldn’t help it. 

The man jumped as if bitten. “Aye, nice o’ ye to remember me, Lieutenant.”

“Gibbs, mind, ‘es a commodore now,” Jack interjected.

“Oh, that’ll be it. Commodore.”

“You’re a pirate?” James still looked mildly stunned.

“Quick, very quick, don’t ye think, Gibbs?”

“Aye, Cap’n. Good thing the Navy ‘as such clever officers.”

Piqued, Norrington straightened. “I’m sorry, but the last time I knew, you were being hauled off ship for being drunk whilst on watch.”

“Maybe that’s why he became a pirate?” Sparrow leant forward, peering at each of them. “Maybe?”

“Why, don’t you care if your lookouts are so drunk they can’t see their bottle let alone the horizon?” He was actually curious, and his words had no bite. Though he’d never understand how any pirate boat ever managed to set sail. Or catch anyone unwary. Except they’d done it to him. Which was something else he really didn’t like to remember.

“No.” Jack shrugged blithely.

Gibbs grinned toothily. “Cap’n Jack found me in Tortuga when ‘e needed a crew.”

“Found ‘im in a pigsty.” Jack winked. An image floated into Norrington’s head that made him feel slightly queasy.

“Bucket o’ water in the face an’ a tale to make ye shiver o’ nights.”

Apologetically, Jack made a face. “We did need ‘im.”

“An’ I came. Despite the omens…”

“What omens?” Norrington glanced between them.

“We’ve a woman on board.” He squinted sideways, nodding in the direction of the quarter deck and AnaMaria. “An’ now we’ve a Commodore. For all ‘e don’ quite look the part.”

“Why am I bad luck?” Indignantly, Norrington tapped his own chest. “I’m not a bloody albatross!”

“Navy man on a pirate boat…”

“Ignore Gibbs, Jamie. He sees portents and signs in the way his dinner lands on his plate.”

“Mock ye not, Cap’n, I knows.” And with that cryptic comment he stalked off.

Norrington stared after him. “Mister Gibbs, well I never. He was a good sailor once.”

“He still is.”

“Though he never liked women much, I do recall that.”

“Fond o’ pigs though.”

“Jack, please, you’ll put me off my supper.”

“Which I’m ready for.” He smacked his lips cheerily.

“Incorrigible…”

“But very lovely.” With a flutter of his eyelashes and with a swirling turn, he swaggered off towards the stairs.

Not that Norrington had been going to disagree. Not at all. He was already anticipating the evening. And the night. With a spring in his step he followed along, down into the lower decks and the crew’s mess. 

The room fell silent as he walked in. A man with a parrot on his shoulder stood up and, taking his tin plate with him, walked out. Two others just turned their backs and dug into the food. Everyone else just continued staring. Norrington felt Jack’s eyes on him, but he didn’t turn, just went to the huge pot of stew that stood to one side, and ladled himself a plateful. He slid onto a bench, smiling at nobody in particular. “Spoon?”

A tiny man reached into a box and passed him one.

“Thank you.”

“Polite, ain’t ‘e?”

A voice from the other side of the room. Norrington took a bite of the food. It was surprisingly good. “This is excellent – compliments to the chef.”

A murmur of voices seemed to concur that he was indeed polite. And apparently had good taste as well. Norrington was onto this third mouthful when Jack sat down next to him, flicking his beads out of the way as he dug into his meal.

Slowly, they all started chatting again. No one spoke to him, but then no one was rude, or even went particularly out of their way to ignore him. When he finished, and sat back, someone offered him an apple, which he accepted gracefully. Crunching his way through it, he caught Jack’s amused eye, just as a hand slipped onto his thigh. He stilled. The hand crept higher.

“Right, lads, I’m off to do some work on the charts – anybody needs me? Ask AnaMaria.”

Ah. Charts. Norrington swallowed the apple that somehow had turned dry in his mouth, and tossed the core onto his plate. Curiously, he wondered if he should just leave with Jack, or if he should wait. Surely it was no secret he was sharing the captain’s bed? Which probably made him the captain’s Ganymede. Or maybe just strumpet was a better word.

A tap on his shoulder and Jack motioned for him to stand.

No secrets then. He’d never been called a chart before. Glancing around, he noticed that no one seemed to be unduly upset. He smiled at them all. “Thank you for supper.”

“No problem, mate.” One man gave him a mocking salute. Another just took his plate away. Though when he stepped out of the door, and Jack closed it behind him, immediately there came the muffled sound of loud conversation.

“See? Knew they’d like you.” Jack patted him on the shoulder and walked past.

“Like?”

“Aye. Phelps gave you ‘is spoon instead of stabbing you with it.”

“Thank you, I am so reassured.”

“Thought you might be.” He stopped just at the lowest step. “I’m going on deck, to make sure everything’s nice and under control, how about you go to bed. ‘Spect you need a lie down…”

Norrington came to stand close to him. “You know, I think I do. Very tiring, climbing the shrouds and eating good stew.”

“Mmm, and I think I need to check you over – top to toe. For injuries, of course. All of you, every inch.” But instead of smiling, he stood very still, then shivered once. When he spoke again his voice was low, threaded with desire. “Every inch, James.”

As if in a tight closed room, the air was very hard to breath, like it was thickening around him. Norrington wondered at his hunger, it was something that tore at him, a need to touch, to have, to own. A hunger that was so clearly reflected in the other man’s eyes that it was akin to staring in a mirror. And in answer to a question that was quite silent, he simply said, “Yes.”

 

 

 

 

::::

As if preparing for a ritual, Norrington stripped down to his skin, and washed in a bucket of water he’d brought up to the stateroom. With a torn length of cloth he soaped and rinsed, paying careful attention to his cock and balls and arse, his blood humming with awareness of who would soon be touching them. His cock had been half-hard since supper, lifting away from his groin in an eager fashion, as if it was begging. Well, hopefully he wouldn’t have to beg tonight. Jack seemed as keen-edged as he was himself, a delicious, fortuitous circumstance that made him quite breathless with anticipation.

Drying himself, he searched around and found a mirror. It was small, ornate enough to have belonged to a princess. Soaping his face, he settled before it and took the open razor by its horn handle. Then carefully he scraped at his stubble, until chin and cheeks and neck were quite smooth. Another rinse took the last of the soap away, and he dried the razor, folding it before placing it back on the table. A comb, its edge encrusted in pearls, he ran through his hair, tidying its ragged length as best he could. In the mirror he looked calm. Strange, as he wasn’t sure that was the word for what he felt. Light of head and body, for sure. Happy. The thought made him smile, and he watched himself, wondering what Jack saw, what there was in him that Jack wanted. Though he wasn’t going to question it too much, just accept the gift, and give back as much as he could of pleasure.

Slowly, he stood up and, naked, walked into their cabin. Theirs, not just Jack’s. The massive bed was so inviting, though the bedlinen was rumpled. Folding the blankets back, he smoothed the sheet flat and plumped the pillows as he remembered seeing the maids at his mother’s house do. Not that it mattered. He’d want the pirate anywhere. Lying on dust or silk, it didn’t make a difference to anything but their comfort. 

It was close to sunset, and already the room was full of the warm, rich light of day’s end. It wouldn’t last long, and tonight there would be no moon. Lighting a taper, he paced around the room, lighting the two candles that sat on the table by his bedside, shielding the flame and going to the shelf that ran under the window, and putting the flame to the candles there. Their light was faded against the day, but soon they would be needed, for he wanted to see Jack Sparrow naked, to watch him as they made love. He let the taper burn through, and dropped the ashes onto a dish.

He looked around. There was nothing else to do. Crossing to the window he stared out at the perfect red and gold sky, and let his thoughts wander without intent. There was no room in him for reason, this was all about need and sensation. Need and necessity. For he had no doubts about his own cravings. And whatever else he knew about the pirate, he knew that he was desired in the same way.

In a way that he’d never been. Ever.

Though in truth he felt different too. Changed beyond belief from the man who had asked Elizabeth Swann to be his wife. Changed even more from the man who had counted a day well spent if a pirate died at his orders. He felt, what? Lighter. Enlightened. Maybe the philosophers needed to meet with a pirate named Sparrow. He seemed to hold the answers to a universe of questions.

Norrington smiled, and turned. And there, silent and still, watching him, was Jack. He was wearing his shirt open, and water trickled down his chest.

“You bathed.” Inane comment. James sighed at himself.

“Aye. I thought you might prefer it.”

“I’ll take you any way you wish.” He shrugged in mild embarrassment, hearing the way his words could be interpreted. Then, dry-mouthed, added, “Or you could take me.”

“No preferences?”

“No. Though both, at some time, if that is your pleasure.”

“I’ve a thousand pleasures, Jamie. I like to fuck, and I’m greedy. I want everything.”

Everything. A shiver ran down James’ spine. “It’s yours.”

“Then we’d better prove it, hadn’t we.” And with that Jack stepped into the room, the curtain falling closed behind him. He’d already stripped the scarf and bone from his hair, and loosed the braids that kept it swept from his face. As he paced forward he stripped off his shirt, and the fine, sleek planes of his body were touched rose and amber by the sunset. Very serious, he came and stood by Norrington and, reaching out a hand, stroked a thumb over his cheek. “And my pleasure tonight is to have you, Jamie.” 

He moved closer, and the hand around Norrington’s head pulled him down. Close enough to feel each other’s breath, not close enough to touch.

“Jack, yes.” And then the lips brushed his own, and the hand clasping possessively about his head pulled him closer. James moaned into the kiss, wanting more, though it was withheld as the lips traced up his face, kissed his eyes, his forehead, the line of his nose and then finally, delicately, his mouth.

“Mine, Jamie. You’re mine.” 

The lips whispered against his own, and James could only reply with his body, pushing wantonly forward, his hands sliding around Jack’s slim ribs for his knees were weak and his cock was already hard, pushing insistently up, its swollen head rubbing on the fabric of Jack’s breeches.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yesss.” Jack’s muscles rippled as he shuddered, though his face remained sharp, feral as a wild animal. “Gods, Jamie, what have ye done to me?”

Norrington could only shake his head. Whatever had been done, had been done to both of them. Though before he’d finished the thought, Jack kissed him. Like drowning. He opened his lips and let go, his hands clutching Jack’s shoulders as if they were a spar at sea, and his only hope and refuge and succour. The feel of skin against his own, the heat of the slim, strong body as it held, him, hands touching, smoothing, weaving around him, creating such sensations that he whimpered into the kiss. Jack growled in response and his tongue delved deeper, taking him, shocking him with the need it exposed in himself. In the abject desire.

Teeth bit into his lower lip and the pain was simply pleasure. He bared his own and bit back, sucking Jack’s flesh, licking as his own hands tore into shoulder muscles and his hips thrust forward to be met and matched, heat for heat. He dragged his mouth away, and stared at Jack wide eyed.

“Your breeches.”

Norrington cupped Jack’s hardness, watching avidly as all the laziness snapped from the dark eyes. He hardly recognised his own voice it was so low, breathy. “Take them off.”

Jack swallowed hard. Then shook his head once. “No. You do it…”

And Commodore Norrington knelt, his hands fumbling clumsily to undo the buttons that fastened the pirate’s breeches. The sunset had to be glorious, for Jack stood in a pool of rose-gold light; light the colour of treasure, or purity. The colour of haloes and incense. All the scars and inked patterns that marked his body stood out starkly, the ship that sailed across his flesh speeding through the waves as his chest rose and fell with harsh, panting breaths, the scars on his arm twisting as he clutched the air. Another button and his head fell back. Another and his cock was finally free, bouncing up eager as a hound in full flight.

Pulling the fabric down, scenting soap as well as spice, James ran his hands down the long legs. The breeches pooled at Jack’s brown feet, then were kicked away. Moaning, Norrington leant forward and kissed a thigh; lightly haired, the muscle spasmed under his touch. Another kiss, higher this time, and Jack cursed him, soft and sibilant, potent and fluent. A smile then, though he was just as eager, just as tight wound, but he had this moment. And his lips traced up, brushing a vein, the dip where thigh met groin, the scratchy darkness of hair that cupped the eager length of spearing flesh.

“Jamie…Gods, man, you… please…”

A hand touched his head, gentle for all that it trembled with its restraint. Obedient, he kissed, just there. One dry brush of lips on doe-soft skin. Another, this time with his breath behind it. Another, and he opened wide, and sucked the tip, and just the tip, mouthing the head, back and forth, letting it pop in and out of his mouth as he licked slowly into the weeping slit. Back and forth, rocking his head until he felt the hand jerk hard against his head, the fingers digging in, pulling him back, away.

“Don’t, I’ll spend myself.”

“If you want…”

“No. In you, Jamie, nowhere else.”

The boards rough against his knees, James gasped. “Yes.” Jack bent to him, kissed his lips again, licked the taste of himself from within them and around them. “Come, up with you.” The whisper was against his cheek, and James moved, standing, hands aiding him as he swayed giddily.

The bed was so close. He fell back, pushed, guided, brought down. The light slanting in the window blinded him, and he could only feel as he was turned and Jack’s body settled against him.

“I want ye, Jamie. Tell me you want me too.”

“Christ, Jack.” He could hear his own desperation threaded in the words, in his voice. “Fuck me. I want to feel you.”

“How much?”

“Ah, how can you? Jesus, yes, I want you so much I’ll kill you if you don’t do it.”

“Better. Why?”

“Because I love you, you bastard!”

“Yesss…” And Jack pressed him tight to the bed, and a mouth was kissing his back, sliding down, biting as it went, making him start and jerk at each press of sharp teeth, making his cock leak against the sheets, untouched, trapped. A bite on his arse made him cry out, but then the biting stopped and instead the mouth was licking, sucking his skin, sliding down, into his cleft and into his hole. He groaned, clutching at the bed, the sheets, finding a pillow and using it as an anchor as the tongue – so hot, so hard, so bloody skilled – fucked him. Inside him. And that thought alone made him sob, his face buried in the pillow, his teeth biting hard at the cotton.

Never had he imagined. Never. Overwhelming, outrageous, so good. He could feel Jack’s nose buried in his cleft, feel every swipe of tongue, every intrusion, each one deeper than the other, each one opening him, until he felt stripped, peeled, every inch of his skin a mass of sensation.

The air was cold when the face moved. Norrington whimpered and clutched his pillow as Jack braced himself over him.

“How long’s it been?”

“How… What?” He turned his head to speak, though his lips felt alien. 

“Since you were fucked?”

“Not. I mean, ever…” He licked his lips and tried again. “Never.”

“Oh.”

Was that bad? From somewhere he found the will to turn his head, to look in Jack’s eyes. “Sorry…”

Arching over him, Jack kissed his shoulder, then his mouth, hungrily. When he leant back, his eyes were sloe-black. “Don’t be.”

Hot, hard flesh slid between his arse cheeks and James gasped. “Yes… Jack, I want this.”

No words, but the mouth kissed him once more, hard on the pad of muscle where his shoulder met his back, just where he knew the scars were worst, and suddenly Jack was braced over him one handed, the other sliding over his hole, finding it, pressing his cock-head to it. “It’ll hurt, but not for long.” And he pressed in.

Biting down on his lip, James arched off the bed. A hand slid around his chest, cradling him sweetly as the cock ripped him open. The pain was like nothing else. It burned, tore, clawed at him, opening him body and soul as he was claimed. There was no air, no breath. Then Jack moved again and James was panting, heaving air into his lungs, crying out as Jack, his own body shuddering, pushed hard, and somehow was deep inside. They lay still, panting. Sweat dripped onto James’ neck, and the pain slowly dissipated.

“It’ll be good, soon.”

James nodded, though even that movement spiked pain from his arse. He groaned. “Jack, please…”

He felt the nod. And the deep breath that Jack took. Then with a slow slide, he felt the thickness that impaled him move; back then forth, slow as the tide. He expected the same unutterable pain, but instead there was something that felt close to pleasure. Almost sobbing, he clutched the pillow, the cotton absorbing the sweat that stung his eyes, his teeth biting down as the slide began again, and he felt pain that slipped to pleasure, and then back, though each time it was sweeter, until he moaned, and his head lifted, for all he felt was the wholeness of being possessed, and the perfect completion of being taken.

“There, feel how good it is.” Jack’s voice, soft, strained.

“Yes…”

Jack moved his braced hands, mattress dipping, and the penetration deepened. Suddenly James moaned, for this time there was intense, sudden pleasure that flowered through him. 

“See?”

Oh, he saw. Felt. There was still the foreignness of being so stretched and filled, the pain of it too, but there was more. Curious, he flexed his arse, and heard Jack curse him. Though he thought it a good thing, so he did it again.

“Jamie, you’ll kill me…” 

And Jack fucked him slow and deep, until the hard strokes lifted his cock, made it stiff where the pain had stripped arousal away. Raw, scraped between his stomach and the sheet, it was suddenly painful in its need. “Jack, please…I need…”

Hands gripped his hips and tugged. “Come, lift.”

Still joined, with Jack’s balls tight and scratchy against his own, he lifted slowly, until he was kneeling, braced on his elbows. Jack’s mouth was on his neck, biting hard as he slammed in again. James clawed at the bed and screamed as Jack’s hand gripped his length, stripping him back, thumb digging hard into his slit. Once, twice, the charm was there and as the strong hand pumped him and the thick cock rode him, he came, Jack’s name stuttering from his lips, his whole body breaking in the waves that ran through him, through the pain and the overriding pleasure and the racking pulses of his seed shooting up from his balls.

Breath heaving, head hanging, he stilled, propped on quivering arms.

Jack leant close, whispering roughly, wildly. “Now Jamie, now lean back.”

Guided, he sat up, moaning softly as the cock in him seemed to slide even deeper. Jack was sucking his neck, moaning words that were indistinguishable. Still hard in Jack’s hand, his cock seemed to spasm, and as Jack flexed his hips and took his own pleasure, the world turned to scarlet and James came again, spattering seed high as he felt the heat of Jack’s filling him inside, and he heard the indescribable delight of his name on those lips, being screamed in pleasure as Jack came.

::::

The weight of a body lay heavily on his back. He tried to move, but a sharp pain shot up his spine and made him hold quite still, though the body stirred and that was painful enough.

“Jamie, damn, forgive me.” 

Jack lifted and breath became easier. He shivered when the softened cock slid from his arse, and the warmth of spilled seed seeped out onto his thighs.

“Wait.”

Too lethargic to think of anything else, he lay still as the mattress dipped, and after a moment Jack returned with a damp cloth that he swiped gently between his cheeks. Turning onto his side, James watched as Jack cleaned himself, then tossing the cloth away climbed back onto the bed, settling at James’ side. James smiled at him, though the other man was frowning slightly.

“What?”

“I should’ve gone easier.”

“I will grow accustomed to such pastimes. At least, I hope to.”

“Aye.”

“Good.” He felt smug, warm and very content. 

“But there are better ways to break in a virgin.”

“Oh, please.” He laughed softly, breathily as his body reacted in strange and interesting ways to the movement. “I liked it.” He considered. “No, I didn’t like it, I adored it. You think I have release like that every time?”

Jack ceased frowning. “That’s true, you did sound content enough.” He settled back and slid an arm under James’ shoulders, bringing him closer. Without reluctance, Norrington rolled onto his side, one arm around Jack’s waist, his hand stroking gently over a faint ridge of scarring. 

“Better than content.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” James could feel the smile that was spread over Jack’s face.

The sun had long set, and the cabin was lit by flickering candlelight. James lifted his hand and traced a pattern onto golden skin, nothing determined, just a twisting shape that his fingertips found pleasing. The scarring was quite deep. He wondered idly what it was. Or what the story would be: shark, dragon, Scylla.

“It’s from a shackle.”

Jack answered the question he had only thought. 

“On your waist?”

“To act as a tether. They prefer them like that.”

James stilled his hand, wincing. “Who?”

“The keepers of Bethlem Hospital.”

Ah, god. Poor man… “Jack.” He lifted his head and looked into calm, sane eyes. “Who put you there?”

“Bedlam is the place for all lunatics, firestarters and sodomites!” He was clearly quoting someone. “I managed to fit on all three counts.”

“Maybe two, but you’re not mad, Jack. You sail your own line, but you’ve no madness in you.”

“There is. Sometimes. Back there I was worse. The city hated me, and I hated it. I burned my father’s house. At the time it seemed eminently sensible.”

Without judgement, James shrugged. “Then mayhap it was.”

“You’d forgive me anything, wouldn’t ye, Jamie?”

He smiled, sad for the Jack who had lived in chains. Glad that he had flown free. “Not anything, as such…”

“Most things, then?”

“Aye, most things.” The pirate was grinning in a most self satisfied way. James poked him, just under the ribs. “No taking advantage!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Which seemed remarkably unlikely, but not altogether unpleasant. With a smile of his own, James settled back, his hand around the scars he had found, his touch tender, his own aching wrists clear enough knowledge of how harsh the making of those deep scars had to have been.

In the quiet, with the wind lifting and the Pearl once again sliding through the waves, Jack slept. Pressed tight to his chest, James lay awake, half drowsing, listening to the heart beating under his ear, to the waves as they swept by and the whispers of the ship herself, her timbers chattering softly through the night. One by one the candles guttered, and he may have slept himself, for at some point, Jack was gone and, when he looked up, fresh candles were being lit, one by one by a naked Jack Sparrow. Uncurling, James watched him unashamedly. Slim and strong, his skin was golden, the dark hair black in the half-light. He was lovely. Not mad at all. But it was easy to see how he could seem so.

“Drink?”

James nodded, and watched as Jack slipped past the curtain, returning after a moment with a bottle and two glasses. “Rum?”

He laughed softly, though it faded into a wince as he sat up and his spine took his weight.

“Ah, looks like you need it. Rum cures all ills.” Jack ignored the glare directed at him. “Honest, ‘tis true.”

The headboard was a lovely place to rest. “Give me some then, Sparrow. I think you might have damaged me.”

Blithe, Jack sat on the bed next to him, and poured a glass. “I checked. No blood.”

“Oh, I feel so much better.”

“Drink.” James obeyed. The first sip was delicious. As was the second. Somehow he was at the bottom of the glass. The rum’s warmth spread through him happily, and he sighed lushly, turning his head to Sparrow. “You’re right.”

“Mm, if you ever get a tattoo, drink plenty o’ rum first.”

“I will.” He thought about it. A pattern inked on his skin. Not if he was going back to his old life, but if he stayed. If there was a place here. If he could live with being nothing but a pirate’s… what? Whore, companion, lover, fellow pirate for God’s sake? No, not that. 

“You look very serious.”

James hesitated, then lied. “I was wondering what I’d have. What tattoo.”

“Oh. Well, you could have anything you wanted.” Jack refilled James’ glass, and his own before putting the bottle down on the table at the bedside. “Birds.” Which earned a frown. “Beasts, ships, words – how about ‘mother’ in flowing script? No? Oh well, Um, you could have something nautical, like an anchor, or naked wench. The men are fond of those, especially the ones who’re too ugly to see the real thing.”

“Maybe a sparrow, like yours, but not in flight. A little sparrow sitting in a tree. Or two sparrows!” He giggled softly at the idea. Then he remembered something. “You know, sparrows stand for lechery?”

“You don’t say.”

“Ah, yes. Elizabethan poets were always going on about them.”

“Lechery.”

“Mm. Suits you so well.”

“I chose it. My real name’s very boring and doesn’t stand for lechery at all, more like deathly boredom and high-toned morality.”

“Your father’s name then?”

“The one and only.”

A question lingered in James’ mind, and because of the rum he asked it. “Why did you burn his house?”

“Because I hated ‘im.” Jack shrugged, as if it was of no consequence at all, which perhaps it wasn’t. “And ‘e deserved it.”

“Good reasons.” James lifted his glass and they toasted the fact, drinking deep.

Taking the glasses, Jack put them away, then he turned back, shifting until he was lying down. He tugged at James’ hand. “Come on.”

Movement was easier with the rum inside him. In fact nothing really hurt at all. Sighing happily, he wriggled down and curled onto his side to face Sparrow. For a long while he just lay and looked, staring at the pirate’s face, at the patterns braided into the fine beard, at the curl of his moustache, the way his eyes seemed so intent, so alive with intelligence even when lazy with sex and sleep. All the while he knew that Jack was examining him in the same way, and he hoped he appeared in some way favoured, though he had no illusions, for he knew he was not a handsome man. If he had been such a thing he would have proposed to Elizabeth the day she turned sixteen. That he hadn’t, now only gave him a faint feeling of relief. He hadn’t, and so his life had changed and allowed this to happen. Even O’Connell seemed a fair bargain, for this happiness. Though he would have scorned anyone who could have said such a thing at the time. See, Norrington, you’ll live through this and the pain will bring you heaven. He’d have laughed long and loud. If he’d been capable, which most of the time had been quite unlikely.

He started when Jack’s hand brushed his face.

“What’re you thinking of?”

“You.”

“That’s good.” Jack smiled innocently. “I hope.”

“Oh yes, good.”

“Enough for you to kiss me again?”

“Jack, you don’t have to ask.”

Brought closer, he felt Jack’s arousal as their lips met. Hard and wanting though they had not long since spent themselves so well. It was so exquisite to be desired so passionately. His own cock lifted, as eager as a boy’s, so it was hot and ready, bumping against its fellow as, quite lazily, Jack slipped his hand between their bodies and clasped both shafts, squeezing as he pressed forward. Gasping into the kiss, James let the pleasure rise over him, the sweetness of it like honey after the rutting that had gone before. Moaning softly, he pulled Jack to him, cupping the firm buttocks, pulling him near as the hand pumped slow and firm, the rhythm so right, so perfect. There was no hurry. He stroked the fine, warm skin under his hand, and kissed, the touch so light it was merely a breath between them, a skimming of skin on skin, of tongue against tongue. Gradually the shift of fist over cock grew faster, more firm. Still slow, it became insistent, the point of no return reached. James heard Jack’s quiet breathing snag in his throat, and Jack’s cock was pulsing hard along his own, and the body in his arms was shuddering, gasping, with harsh, eager sounds. The heat spilling over his skin was all it took, and James came too, held tight, their seed warm and sticky between them.

::::

The next morning he couldn’t move. In any way.

Crawling like a sick and palsied man from the bed, he made it to the pisspot but couldn’t face anything else. While Jack was up and dressed, humming to himself as he made himself ready, James simply climbed back into bed and groaned.

“Breakfast?”

“No. Dead men don’t eat.”

“It’s not that bad!”

“It’s not your back and arse.”

Leaning over him, Jack smiled wickedly. “Ah, but it will be next time.” His hand cupped Norrington’s groin through the sheets, and when he felt the reaction he laughed. “See, not dead yet.”

“Just you wait.”

“Oh, I am, I am.” A kiss on Norrington’s nose, and he stood back. “Tonight?”

Norrington simply pulled the covers over his head and cursed volubly.

He only half awoke when Jack left to go up on deck, though he roused for a kiss that left him drowsy in the cold morning light. It was gone noon when he awoke again. The aches were not so sharp this time, and he managed to rise, wash after a fashion and dress, all without whimpering too much. Using the head was a different matter. Not helped by the amused looks he got from various members of the crew, a few of whom seemed to feel it necessary to impart their own cures and remedies. Which meant that he and Jack (or just Jack, or just himself) had been loud enough for the men to hear what was happening. And his own limping appearance had merely informed all the busybodies exactly what had been done to whom.

It was all acutely embarrassing. But not so that he would have changed a moment. Or that he wouldn’t do it again. Just as soon as he stopped shitting fire.

They sailed into a small storm in the late afternoon, and everyone ate cold food, and worked through it, apart from James who took to their cabin and curled up in bed with one of Jack’s books. He dozed for a while, then pulled the covers over himself and slept, awaking in the dark, with Jack’s cold and wet body against him. Smiling at the familiarity of it all, he warmed the other man, came under his insistent hand, returned the favour and fell asleep remarkably content.

By the following day he felt bright and well. In fact, looking in the mirror gave him hope that the bruises were not in fact permanent. His arse felt better too. Though he definitely needed to get fucked more often. He was sure that frequent use would make the process less painful. And he was certain too that Jack wouldn’t object to the offer.

Taking his book, he dressed and went up on deck, and shirt and breeches were so much quicker to don than the layers of his uniform. Jack was already there, walking the deck. James greeted him, but went to sit by the rail. Settling on the deck he looked up into the sky and let the warmth toast through him, until he felt rather like a cat basking in the sun. He was already losing his pallor, and that was good; though his pale skin would never brown like Sparrow’s, it could at least look less pasty. He even contemplated removing his shirt, but decided against it as the idea of sitting half naked in full view of everyone was just a little beyond him.

As yet. For he knew he was changing. Knew that everything that had anchored him to his past was being cut away: duty, obedience, decorum, morality, religion. It seemed as if it all suddenly meant so little, when he had the open sea, the brightness of the sunlight and the even brighter light that was a tatty pirate.

“You really shouldn’t sit there grinning to yourself – people will talk.”

Jack settled next to him, looking warm, happy, the paint dark under his eyes today. “Your men don’t seem to mind what I do. Or what we do…”

“Ah, get some comments did ye?”

“Advice, actually. Apparently there are cures for what ailed my arse.”

“The best cure for that is to do it again.” Jack turned to face him, fingers playing with the long strands of beads that framed his face. “Often, Jamie, often.”

A few words and he was stiff. The man was a sorcerer. James nodded and tried to answer evenly. “I guessed that might be the case.”

“Good.” Ah, that smile. It shot pleasure down to the very soles of his feet. “So, ye thinks that might be a good course to sail?”

“You have no arguments from me, Captain.”

“Good.” Jack grinned, as self-satisfied as it was possible to look. “I hoped ye might be agreeable.”

“Perfectly. And very willing to try out newly learned skills on you.”

Now that got a good reaction, as the heat in Jack’s eyes intensified. James allowed himself his own moment of satisfaction, and grinned before opening the book and pretending to read.

Jack peered over his shoulder and a long finger stroked the book, tracing a line of words. “Watch out for the Sirens.”

Turning, staring into his eyes, James shook his head. “Too late, I seem to have found one.”

“Do you?” The scrutiny lingered, then something like fear flickered in the dark, striated pupils, and disconcertingly, Jack blinked and turned away. “Jamie, how d’ye fancy a stroll on land. We’ve got to replenish water and wood for the galley, so we’re anchoring in a small bay sometime tomorrow. It’ll take the men a few hours to collect everything, so we could wander off.”

Immediately distracted, James found his mouth to be dry. “Wander off.” So much to anticipate in those two words. “Inspect the lie of the land?”

“Which we do by lying on it. Together. That sound reasonable?”

“Perfectly.” The idea of coupling in the open air was debauched, and utterly delicious. “I’ve never, you know, outside.”

Jack looked almost comically surprised. “Then we have to!” He paused thoughtfully and tapped his chin. “On a nice grassy bit, sand’s no respecter of nooks and crannies.”

“We could always take a blanket.”

“Goodness me, Jamie, such hedonism. And yes, we could. And should!” He stood up, brushing off his breeches. “Well, I’d better go and do some captaining, or AnaMaria will be making dolls of me too.” And with that cryptic comment he wandered off, striding across his deck with a proprietorial air.

Amused, James opened the book again. But the words blurred, and all he kept thinking about was the fear he had seen in Jack’s eyes.

::::

They fucked again that night. In darkness so warm it felt like noon, Jack laid him on the bed and came close to driving him insane. Kisses trailed down his skin, licks trailed back up, only for the sweetness to be pierced by teeth closing hard on his skin, hard enough to mark, to bruise, though the pain was as wound in pleasure as the kisses, and James shuddered in response to every touch. When he tried to reach for Jack, to kiss in return, he was pushed back, hands dragged to above his head and held there. Leaning over him Jack growled, and no words were needed. James kept his hands high, as if bound with invisible shackles, and let his body be toyed with, plied by a master of the craft.

When he was sobbing, so close to release that his hips were straining upwards, Jack left off suckling at his balls, and moved to straddle his shoulders, pinning him down, arse settled on his chest, cock hard as it stabbed the air in front of his face.

Squeezing his own balls, Jack arched back. In the shadows he looked sleek as a seal, his skin shiny with sweat, his face tilted back as he held himself tight, pulling downward as his cock bobbed and dripped. James reached with his mouth, licking at the pearly trails of seed, wanting more, groaning with a need that was beyond him to deny. Beyond Jack to deny him as well. For the hand slipped upwards and gripped the cock by its root, pushing it down with a thumb to tease it over James’ lips. Suckling and licking at the tantalising nearness, James whimpered, and was rewarded by more. He opened wide and took it, sucking hard, his mouth stretched as Jack pushed deeper, his fisted hands pressed to the bed either side of James’ head, his body hunched as his hips twitched. Looking up, James met his eyes, met the need and the desperation. Fingers carded into his hair, held him, urged him on. He choked and panicked, then with a surge of air in his lungs took more. Wanted more. He could feel Jack shaking, as if his whole body was locked in struggle, not move or to not move, the hand unsteady in his hair, stroking, clutching, trembling as if with ague, until he stiffened, and his cock swelled in James’ mouth, pulsing as his balls drew tight and he came hard, leaving James time only to breath and swallow, to gag unevenly as his mouth was used solely for Sparrow’s pleasure.

Immediately it was done, Jack moved, and was suddenly at his side, holding him, kissing him, licking the spilled spunk from his cheek, from his gasping mouth. A dip of the mattress and he was sucking James into him, eating his cock, sucking and moaning, so that James could hardly breathe or think as his body arched off the bed and he screamed his pleasure, sobbing out loud Jack’s name.

Licked, kissed, released, he groaned blissfully as Jack came back to his side, and wrapped his arms tight around him.

“Ah, gods, Jamie, I love ye. Stay with me.”

And all the fear was there, clear in the harshly spoken words. James stroked his face, kissed his lips lightly as he voiced his own fear. “For how long?”

“Give up what you were, stay with me. I’ll not steal again from any honest man. I’ll be good to ye. Good as I can be.”

The temptation was so strong it was hardly anything other than a decision. But…

“What would I be, Jack? Your whore? I love you, but I couldn’t be nothing more than your bed-warmer.”

A hand gripped his chin and wild eyes glittered close to his face. “Never just that. Share the Pearl with me, she likes you, talks to you as she does to me. You know she does. Sail at my side and we’ll explore the world, head south, past the China seas and look for mermaids, hunt sea-monsters, dive for pearls. I care not. Just stay.”

“Can you doubt my answer?”

“Yes.” He was strung tight, so unsure. James shook his head.

“You shouldn’t. I’ll stay. I thought you might not want me…”

“Not want you? Jack gasped. “We are both fools then.”

“But we’re fools together.”

And, smiling, Jack kissed him, the accord sealed. Wrapped together they lay for a long time, whispering in the darkness, as the ship sang softly around them.

::::

The island was paradise. Sitting on the white sand, James watched Sparrow frolic in the sea. He knew he was smiling in a besotted way, but he really didn’t care. Not even that AnaMaria had already tutted at him or that Gibbs was laughing himself stupid. The whole crew knew he was their Captain’s man, and it really didn’t matter.

With a sudden splash Jack reared up out of the water, sea streaming from his chest like ropes of seaweed, droplets like pearls in his hair. If he’d had a long fishy tail James would not have been at all surprised, but as he waded through the shallows there was no doubt he had legs. No doubt that he was a human male at all, really.

“What are you thinking about?” Jack sank down beside him, water dripping everywhere.

“You.”

“Nice thoughts?” He turned, and his eyes crinkled with amusement. The bastard already knew the answer.

“I think so.” But who could begrudge him his confidence? Not James, and certainly not the sea, which seemed to love him, or his crew or the Pearl . Whatever his origins, Jack Sparrow had found his place. “I think most of the new supplies are loaded.”

He watched Jack stare across at the elegant shape of his ship. Two rowboats plied their way between her and the shore, carrying barrels of freshwater and fruit. Distantly, over the soft rumble of the waves, he could hear the sound of a penny-whistle.

“Aye. Almost done.”

In fact they were more or less alone. James relaxed until he lay flat. The sand was warm under him, and he stared up at the sky through a pattern of palm leaves. It was blue as blue, patterned here and there with leaves or clouds, like something from a child’s storybook. After a moment Jack lay back as well. His arm touched James’, the skin feeling chilly against his own. Curling onto his side, James stroked the damp, sandy skin with one finger. It made Jack’s skin lift into goosebumps. “The weather’ll turn soon.”

“Rain and storms.”

“And more heat.”

“We could head south?” Jack turned and looked at him.

“Mmm, the Spice Islands.”

“The South China Seas.”

“More pirates?”

“Aye, but ones we could prey on. Bad pirates, good pirates. We could have fun.”

“Jack Sparrow, I swear you have the strangest notion of fun.”

“Maybe so, my Commodore, but at least I don’t have a raging tumescence in full view of the Pearl – you know she’ll blush.”

James just grinned, lazily. “I’ve my breeches on. And besides, none of your crew are going to bother looking at us.”

“No?”

“No. I broached a fresh keg of rum…”

“Ah, now I see how you became an officer. For a while I thought you’d slept your way to rank – hey!” The finger stopped stroking and poked him, hard. Jack grinned, gold teeth ablaze in the sunlight. “Just teasing!” The finger swept over his nipple and he gasped sharply. “Oh, unfair play…”

“All’s fair, Jack Sparrow.”

“Good job this is love then.”

“Yes. I’ve had enough of war. Enough of warring with you. Very well, let us to the China seas – you can show me sea monsters.”

“I can show ye more than that.”

“I know, Jack. I’ll look forward to discovering exactly what as we sail.”

“James?”

“Mmm…”

“If you don’t stop – that! – yes that, with the… oh… nipple.” James smiled sweetly. Jack curled his legs up. “Damn you, yes that! We’ll be doing more than lying on the beach and the crew will be educated along with the tree crabs and the gulls.”

James sighed. He lifted his finger and shook his head regretfully. “And there I was thinking you’d walk a little way inland with me, and maybe you’d find the time.” He tapped once, lightly at the dark nipple. “The energy.” A stroke this time that made Jack gasp. “The inclination as well I’m thinking.” He bent and his lips pressed to the tight-drawn flesh, holding there until a moan was torn from Jack’s throat. “To fuck me again.” Though the words were muffled, it was clear from the other man’s reaction that he’d heard them quite well. A nip of his teeth and James leant back. Jack was glassy-eyed, and his cock was stiff, rosy hued and weeping. “What d’you say?”

“And now he wants words? All right then. I am going to fuck you long and hard. I may let you go before it gets dark, but then again…” The teeth gleamed. “Maybe I won’t.”

“Such promises!”

“I always keep my promises, Jamie. Always.”

And there was truth there. James nodded solemnly, and standing, he reached down to pull Jack up to him. “Good. I will hold you to many of them, Mister Sparrow.” And stepping close he kissed the pirate hard. Distantly he heard cheering and a few choice words drifted past on the breeze. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered now, not really. Nothing except this. James was smiling as he stepped back. “So, until dark then?”

“Aye.” Jack laughed then, and, his hand still clasped with another, turned towards the island and started walking. “Coming?” 

 

END


End file.
